


Bon Appétit

by romanticalgirl



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian can't stand the new chef at the restaurant he works at. Until he gets to know him. Then things really start to heat up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bon Appétit

**Author's Note:**

> Amazing video for the story by tumblr user wallflowerinouterspace can be [found here](http://wallflowerinouterspace.tumblr.com/post/134317089288/bon-app%C3%A9tit-by-romanticalgirl-rating)

***

_Cooking is like love, it should be entered into with abandon, or not at all - Van Horne_  


***

“Well, he can’t be worse than Peter.”

“Pierre, remember? I wonder what this one’s name’ll be. Jacques? Henri? Some other fake French name?” Ian smirks. “I swear, are all fucking chefs the same?

“Yes.” Mark, one of the other waiters, said. “Pompous, egotistical, bossy, annoying...” He trails off and everyone follows his eyes to the door of the staff room. The owner and the manager are standing there on either side of someone who looks like he just got dumped off of the prison bus.

“This is your serving staff, Michael.”

“Mickey.” Mickey looks around, sizing them up. His eyes narrow a few times, including when they get to Ian, and it makes Ian feel like prey. Ian’s hackles go up, and he gives the guy the once over, then rolls his eyes. Mickey’s eyes snap back to Ian and narrow again. “This it?”

“For tonight’s shift, yes.”

“Whatever. I need to see the kitchen.”

Ian glances around as they all watch him go. As soon as the door closes behind everyone Ian barks out a laugh. “Jesus Christ. What a dick.”

**

“What the fuck is this?” 

Working with Mickey hasn’t give Ian a better impression of him than the first day. Apparently his cooking is off the charts amazing, which doesn’t make sense given how he looks – someone actually had the balls to ask him if he learned how to cook in prison – but it doesn’t do a damn thing to make Ian like him. 

“You call that fucking prime rib? What color is that? That is _gray_. Prime rib is _never_ gray unless you are a complete idiot who couldn’t make a living flipping burgers at McDonalds.”

Ian hears the kitchen staff scrambling and shouting apologies as they run around the kitchen to fix their perceived mistakes. Ian’s got the bad luck of being nearest the kitchen tonight and, even though Mickey’s quiet during open hours, Ian still has to listen to the build-up.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Antoine! How the fuck can you be French and fuck up a Bearnaise sauce? You don’t just dump the butter in like you’re taking a shit! Do it the fuck again and get it fucking _right_ this time. Fuck.”

Ian hears a pot slam against the stainless steel sink and sighs. The kitchen antics aren’t helping his headache, so he nods to Rachel at the bar and heads through the kitchen for a smoke break. They all normally avoid the kitchen as much as possible, but since Mickey’s responsible for Ian’s headache, Ian’s actually kind of keen on fucking the guy’s day up.

The kitchen is surprisingly quiet as Ian walks through. He imagines they’re all kind of cowed from Mickey’s most recent tirade, so he just walks through and goes out to the back alley. He’s about to light his cigarette when he hears a frustrated huff from the other side of the dumpster. He goes around, stepping back out of sight when he sees Mickey.

His shoulders are hunched and his hands are in his hair and, for the first time, Ian notices not only the tattoos on Mickey’s fingers but the redness of his knuckles and the blood in the small cracks of skin. Ian knows the telltale signs of taking frustration out on a wall, so he steps back further. He can practically feel the tension radiating off of Mickey, feel the tight coil of a snake about to strike. 

Ian turns and walks back the way he came, heading to the mouth of the alley to put distance between them. He’s annoyed enough to say something, and Mickey seems like whatever is inside him is likely to explode over anything, and Ian’s just as good a target as any. He takes a little longer to smoke, giving Mickey time to go back inside. When Ian nears the door back into the restaurant he can hear the cries of ‘yes, chef!’, so he knows whatever it was Mickey was dealing with is back under wraps for now.

“Where were you?” Rachel comes over to Ian as he washes his hands. “Devon showed up and went into the kitchen.”

“Why? Mickey hates having the serving staff in there.”

“She made the stupid ass mistake of asking him out during prep, in his kitchen where he was actually _cooking_ at the time, and in front of his entire crew.”

“Oh shit. She really does have a death wish.”

“She lost a game of poker to Jamie. Loser had to do it.”

“Shit, what was Jamie going to do if he lost?”

“Well, Devon just lost a little pride. I imagine Jamie would have lost some of his most cherished body parts.”

Ian shakes his head. “I go out for _one_ smoke...”

“She should have at least waited until the night was over. At least then he’d be tired and his defenses would be down.”

“I don’t think his defenses ever go down.” Ian smiles slyly. “But you could find out.”

“Are you serious? You think short, dark, and pissed off is my type?”

Ian thinks about Rachel’s last couple of boyfriends. “Yes, actually.”

“Fucker!” She laughs and slaps him. “All right. Tonight. After we close.”

**

It’s a shitty night, even with Rachel’s post-work plans on his mind. He has to deal with Mickey more than once, when people at Ian’s tables insist on meeting the chef. He knows how much Mickey hates having to do the appearances because he has to hear him grumbling in the kitchen later when Ian goes in for his dishes. He tends to glare at Ian like it’s his fault – though the thought of asking his tables to ask for the chef seems kind of deviously evil – so Ian makes a show of looking over his plates, occasionally moving a sprig of parsley or something. 

That inevitably brings Mickey storming over and putting it back _just so_ and glaring at Ian. It’s less intimidating than the silence in the alley was though, so Ian finds it more amusing than anything. Which he’s pretty sure just pisses Mickey off. It’s kind of fun even with the resulting death glares.

It’s good that Ian gets some enjoyment out of that because his tips are shit and there’s no one else near his station to communicate with between demands and it’s a fairly slow night, so a co-bullshitter would be nice. He walks into the kitchen when all his tables are done. It’s much quieter now with just the hum of dishwashers and the distant spray of water. It’s also cooler now that the cooking for the day is done and the back door is open. 

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

Ian stops rubbing his eye and drops his hand. Mickey’s sitting on a stool by the back door, a cigarette in his hand. “I work here.”

“Not in my kitchen you don’t.”

Ian shakes his head and laughs. “Why are you such an asshole?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” Mickey takes a long draw off the cigarette and holds the smoke in for a moment before blowing it out toward the open door. “What’s your excuse?”

“Don’t need one. I’m _not_ an asshole.”

Mickey snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re still in my kitchen though.”

“Ian?” Rachel comes into the kitchen and stops, smiling when she sees them. “Hey. Hey, Mickey.” Mickey nods and puts the cigarette back to his mouth. “We’re going out for drinks. You want to come?”

Ian shrugs. “Sure.”

They both wait for a few moments before Rachel clears her throat. “Mickey?”

He exhales smoke again. “What?”

“Drinks? You want to come?”

He blinks at her, his brow furrowed. “The fuck would I want to do that?”

“Camaraderie. Companionship?” Rachel walks over to him, hips swaying. “Copulation.”

“With you?” His voice is so utterly disbelieving and unimpressed that Ian forgets about the fact that he just won a bet, because he’s so pissed off. Rachel’s eyes are wide and hurt and Ian walks over, pushing her back so he can get between her and Mickey.

“You’re a fucking asshole. She’s never fucking done a thing to you, so get off your fucking high horse. You’re no better than the rest of us. You think because you can saute a few fucking vegetables that you’re so fucking special? Fuck that and fuck you.” He turns around and wraps his arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Come on.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything when they walk out, but as they go past the alley toward the bar, Ian can see the light from the open back door splitting the darkness. He tugs Rachel closer and keeps walking.

**

Ian goes to the restaurant immediately after his last class, sitting in the back toward the kitchen in the dim light, drinking his way through a pitcher of water and trying to write a paper on Alexander Pope and hating him more and more with every passing second. He shuts the book he’s looking at and stretches, hands over his head and back arched. Something pops and he groans. He’s not sure how long he’s been sitting there, but he’s gone through a pitcher of water already. There’s no ice at the bar, so he starts for the kitchen to refill it, stopping at the doors when he hears a noise inside.

He swings the door open slowly, pitcher raised above his head as a weapon. He doesn’t see anyone at first, so he goes deeper into the room. He hears the hum of the refrigerator door, buzzing because it’s not quite closed. Moving closer, he keeps the pitcher raised. The door opens and Ian brings the pitcher down with a hard thud that’s followed by another thud of a body hitting the ground.

“Oh, shit. Mickey.” Ian scrambles to grab the carton of heavy cream that’s leaking as well as the shattered glass bowl of clarified butter. “Shit.”

“Son of a _bitch_.” Mickey closes his eyes tight and rolls over, getting to his hands and knees. Ian can already see the bump rising on the back of Mickey’s head and his first thought is to hide the knives. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sorry. Shit.” Ian stands there with the cream in his hand and the butter congealing at his feet and meets Mickey’s eyes when Mickey raises his head. “I thought you were a burglar or something.”

“What’d you think I was fucking stealing? Lettuce?”

“I didn’t think, okay? I didn’t think anyone else was here, so I was a little freaked out by the noises.”

“You never heard of saying something?”

“I didn’t really want a burglar to know I was in the other room,” Ian snaps. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Apparently being given a concussion by a fucking waiter.” He gets to his feet, grabbing onto a counter to steady himself. “Why are you even in my fucking kitchen?”

“I wanted some water. Why are _you_ in your fucking kitchen? Not that it’s your kitchen.”

“I’m the fucking chef, it’s my fucking kitchen.” Mickey reaches up and touches the back of his head, wincing. He pulls his hand away and there’s blood on his fingers. “Jesus Christ.”

“Oh, fuck.” Ian realizes he’s still holding the glass pitcher and sets it down quickly. “Shit.”

“Fuck.” Mickey goes to the sink and runs the water, testing it with his non-bloodied hand. “Goddamn it. Now I need a fucking... fuck. Put the fucking cream down. Jesus. I need that shit.” 

Ian hurries to do that as well and then goes over to the sink, grabbing a towel from the stack nearby. He sticks it under the water then wrings it out, pressing it against the back of Mickey’s head. He can feel the lump and Mickey winces hard when he touches it. “I blame this entirely on Alexander Pope.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“The guy I’m writing a paper on. He’s the reason I’m here. My roommate has a huge study group thing going on and this paper’s due day after tomorrow, and I needed a quiet spot to study, so Mr. Rimbaud let me come here to work on it. So it’s his fault.”

“No, it’d be his fault if you hit me with the fucking book. Ow, would you fucking stop that?” Mickey reaches up and grabs the towel out of Ian’s hand, walking away from him. “Jesus. Now I’ve got to fucking clarify more butter and I’m at least twenty fucking minutes behind.”

“I can help clean up.”

“You bet your sweet ass you can.” Mickey presses the towel against his head once more then throws it in the corner where there’s a laundry bag for aprons, towels, and napkins. “You’re going to have to scrape the butter off the floor with the squeegee over there and then scrub it so it’s not slick. I don’t need anyone else getting their skull cracked open tonight.” Mickey heads toward the refrigerator then stops outside the door. “Don’t fucking try to kill me when I come out of here again, okay?”

“I promise.” 

Mickey makes a noise and goes through the door. Ian walks past the blast of cold air and grabs the bubblegum scraper out of the corner, scooping all the butter into a pile before starting to clean it up. There’s glass everywhere still, so he manages to scoop all of that up as well. Mickey comes out with his arms full of butter and more cream. He grabs a bag of potatoes once he’s set all of that down and dumps them into the sink, turning on the cold water and running it over them. 

Ian fills the mop bucket with hot water from the spout. Mickey comes over and pours a kettle full of boiling water into it as well and Ian can feel the steam as he dunks the mop then wrings it out. He starts mopping as Mickey goes to the sink and refills the kettle and puts it on the stove then goes back to the sink and starts peeling potatoes.

“Why aren’t any of the other guys here?”

“I do the main dish prep. They do the other stuff. Side dishes. Salads. They prep for immediate orders. This is stuff that takes a while. The nightly specials. You done?”

“Yeah.” 

“Come here.” Ian pushes the mop back to the corner then comes over to the sink. Mickey hands him the peeler. “Get to work.”

Ian doesn’t protest, even though he wants to remind Mickey that he’s not one of his kitchen plebes that he gets to push around. Instead he starts peeling his first potato. He’s not as quick or as efficient as Mickey, but he manages not to mangle it too badly. Mickey takes them as Ian hands them over and starts slicing, his hands moving quickly, sharply. Ian gets caught up in watching him, seeing the perfectly cut slices fall in a potato-shaped mound, like Mickey just bent the whole thing sideways. “Wow.”

“Peel.”

Ian turns his attention back to the potatoes, glancing over at Mickey every once in awhile as he uses the knife. “What are you making?”

“Potatoes.”

“I... What kind?”

“Gratin dauphinois.”

“Oh.” Ian hands over another bare potato. “What the fuck is that?”

“Potatoes, cream, milk, nutmeg, garlic, salt, chives”

“Scalloped potatoes?”

“No.”

“Kind of sounds like it.”

“Well, it’s fucking not.” Mickey slaps the knife down onto the cutting board. Ian jumps slightly, but Mickey just grabs a dish and starts layering the potatoes. Ian finishes peeling and sets the peeler aside, watching again. Mickey’s hands move just as deftly as they did with the knife and, if Ian were the kind of guy who would think about such things, he’d probably be thinking about how Mickey’s hands would feel doing other things.

But he’s not that type of guy.

Except how he is.

Except Mickey’s a grade-A asshole.

“What else? I mean, you can’t just serve scalloped potatoes.”

“Gratin dauphinois.” The French word is at odds with Mickey’s persona and Ian smiles at him, shrugging his shoulders. Mickey’s skin reddens and Ian’s not sure if it’s in embarrassment or annoyance. “Quenelles of pike with lobster sauce. Navarin d’agneau.”

Ian nods. “I have no idea what the fuck you just said.”

“Just...” Mickey shakes his head and goes into the refrigerator. He’s in there for a moment then pokes his head back out. “Get the fuck over here.”

Ian isn’t completely sure why he’s doing it, but he goes over and lets Mickey load his arms up with carrots and small potatoes and green beans. Ian carries them all over to the counter and waits as Mickey brings over a large thing of meat wrapped in butcher paper. Mickey sets it down and then grabs a dark-bristled brush from near the sink. He slips it on like it’s a pair of brass knuckles and grabs a potato. 

“Like this.” He shows Ian how to scrub the potato and the carrot, and then shows him how to cut them. “Don’t lose a finger or anything.”

Ian starts scrubbing while Mickey unwraps the meat and starts cutting it smoothly and efficiently. “You’re really good at this.” It almost pisses Ian off. He could loathe Mickey a hell of a lot more effectively if he wasn’t actually talented. “How long have you been... cheffing?”

“Cheffing?”

“Well, cooking doesn’t sound right.” Ian shrugs and finishes washing all the potatoes and carrots then picks up the knife and looks at it. “So cheffing.”

“Four years since I graduated. I mostly worked my way through school, so the majority of it was flipping burgers. Bounced around from chain restaurant to chain restaurant until I finally got in at an exclusive place. They didn’t want to hire me, but I told them to at least let me cook for them. They did. I did. And they hired me. The only stipulation was that the sous chef always pretended to be me when someone wanted to meet the chef.”

“Why?”

Mickey shows Ian the back of his hands. “These don’t scream the pinnacle of French cuisine. Damon was good looking. People wanted to think their chef was a handsome, charming guy. If they saw me, they just assumed I was the dishwasher.”

“But it’s not like that here.”

“Still compromise. I have to always have a towel in my hands when I go out to meet customers. Putting my hands in my pockets looks rude, but by having a towel, I look like I’m just too busy working to shake hands or linger.”

“That sucks.”

“Is what it is.” Mickey goes back to the lamb and finishes cutting it into pieces then washes his hands before going to the stove. “I want to cook, so I do what I have to do to do it. Trust me, if I had my way, I wouldn’t have to go out and meet people. Let someone else do that job. I just want to stay in my kitchen and do my job.”

“But people love what you cook.”

“So? Eat it then.” He shrugs. “Say you build a building. No one comes up to you on the street and says ‘I want to compliment you on your amazing concrete pouring’. Why should they tell me they like my soupe à l’oignon?”

“Because you can make it with a French name.”

Mickey snorts a laugh. “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s broth, onions, bread, and cheese and anyone with half a brain can make it. I’m just doing my job, man.”

Ian comes over and watches Mickey swirl the oil in the pot. “What are you going to do now?”

“Sear the lamb in stages. You want to bring the board over here?” Ian nods and grabs the cutting board, bringing it over and setting it on the burners Mickey isn’t working with. Mickey takes a third of the meat and spreads it out in the pot, stirring it as the meat darkens. He works easy and quick, flowing movements that Ian gets mesmerized by. “How long have you been waitering?”

Ian can’t help smiling at Mickey’s choice of word. “Most of my life? Well, since I left high school. Worked my ass off while I took my GED. Mostly shitty diners and anyone else who’d have me. Applied here on a complete whim. Well, a whim and a dare. Mr. Rimbaud seemed to like me.”

“He probably thought you’d bring all the hot girls into the place. Have them swooning for the cute waiter in section five.”

“You think I’m cute?’ Ian laughs and darts back far enough that he’s out of knife range, though given that Mickey’s working with hot oil, probably not far enough. Mickey rolls his eyes and stays focused on the meat he’s searing. Ian moves back and shrugs. “I needed a better paying job. If that’s what made him hire me, I’m all for it. We can’t all be master chefs.” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a long time, and Ian just watches him. There’s a weird sort of grace in the way Mickey moves that Ian never associated with cooking. Cooking in his house was always barely controlled chaos and none of the other cooks and chefs he’d worked with ever caught his attention. 

“What’d you cook for them? At the fancy place you got hired on at?”

“Appetizer and entree.”

Rolling his eyes, Ian kicks Mickey’s shoe. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Champignon portobello aux quatre fromages, cod accras, and ris de veau à la reine.”

“You’re making this shit up, aren’t you?”

“Nah, man. Mushrooms stuffed with cheese in a cheese sauce, deep fried cod, and then sweetbreads cooked with mushrooms, garlic, and ham in a wine sauce.”

“What are sweetbreads?”

“You don’t want to know.” Mickey works his way through the lamb and then nods to another pot. “Put that on a low heat and put all that butter into it.” Ian does as he’s told, watching Mickey as he starts pouring and measuring and whisking. 

“Why were you such a dick to Rachel?”

“What?”

“Last night. You were a complete and utter dick to her.”

Mickey frowns, his brow furrowing then winces as if it makes his head hurt. It probably does. “Oh, you mean when she asked me out? Because she wasn’t asking me out. She was trying to see if she could get a rise – literally and figuratively – out of me. She’s barely looked twice at me and now all of a sudden she wants to go for a ride on my dick? Yeah. No.”

“So you had to be a jerk?”

”Because she wasn’t being one to me? Look, I know you guys don’t like me. I don’t need you to like me. I’m just here to do a job, and I’m not sorry that I ask the people I work with to work as hard as I do. This matters to me. Cooking. Being good at what I do. I grew up thinking I was fucked for life. Maybe I don’t fucking want to be that, and I’m not about to let anyone drag me down.”

“That means you have to be a jerk when people invite you out to have fun?”

“It wasn’t about having fun. I’ll lay money down that it was a bet.” Mickey laughs sharply. “It’s always a bet. I don’t make people like me. I don’t want people to like me. I want them to let me do my job and do it well.”

“You don’t have fun?”

“Cooking is fun for me.”

“What do you do to unwind?” Ian leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you have friends? Relatives? Girlfriends?”

“Why do you give a fuck? Shit!” Mickey stirs the lamb and then puts it on a plate, replenishing the oil and letting it get hot before he sets the last batch in. “We’re not friends, dude. I don’t even know your fucking name.”

“It’s Ian.”

“God, that wasn’t a fucking invitation to _tell_ me your name. It was an invitation for you to fuck the fuck off.”

“I want to watch you cook.” Mickey sighs and turns back to his lamb, deliberately ignoring Ian. Ian moves over to the counter and boosts himself up on it, sliding off immediately at the look Mickey gives him. He sees the bucket of cold water and bleach towels in the corner and grabs one, carefully wiping the counter surface. “Sorry.”

Mickey turns back to the food and Ian watches him concentrate. It’s kind of mesmerizing. And hot. Not that Mickey’s hot. Or interested in whether or not Ian thinks he’s hot. And it’s not like Ian didn’t feel a burst of shame in his chest when Mickey mentioned Rachel asking him out being a bet. That’s all it is. Guilt. Mickey’s not hot. Ian’s just... appreciating him.

Mickey goes over to the butter and does something to it. Ian means to watch, but instead he gets caught by the fact that Mickey has an amazing ass. It’s framed in his black pants by the sides of his apron, and Ian has to remember to swallow. 

“I should get back to my paper.”

“You should have done that a half hour ago.” Mickey doesn’t look up and Ian has to force himself to look away and start for the door out to the restaurant. “Don’t come in my kitchen again unless you’re coming for an order.”

“Thanks for the cooking lesson.”

Mickey flips him off and Ian ducks out of the room. Shit. He is not allowed to be turned on by the nastiest jerk he’s ever worked with. Everyone hates Mickey. Ian hates Mickey. He’s pompous and obnoxious and loud and abrasive. But his hands were like magic when he was cutting the meat, when he moved the pot and sent the lamb tumbling across the bottom, perfectly browned. Ian had felt like an oaf next to him and all he was doing was cutting the tops off of carrots and the ends off of beans. 

He knows he’s not going to be able to concentrate on his paper, so he packs his stuff away and goes back into the employee area, stowing his bag in his locker. He changes out of his street clothes and into his waiter uniform, walking out on the floor as he hears the rest of the first shift come in. Rachel sees him and grabs him in a hug, jumping up on his back for a piggyback ride. “What are you doing here so early?”

“Homework.”

“Bah. You work too hard. I heard short, dark, and angry earlier when I stowed my stuff behind the bar. He’s already yelling at people and they’re not even on the clock yet. I wish he’d said yes last night just so I could have laughed in his face and told him I’d rather fuck Mr. Rimbaud than him.”

Ian makes a noncommittal noise and Rachel leans her head in and kisses his cheek. “We should have bet money. Not that you have any.” She slides down his back and links her arm through his. “I think Andrew’s going to ask him out tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because this time there is money riding on it. Devon’s now convinced that Mickey’s playing for your team since he turned both of us down.”

“Maybe he doesn’t believe in workplace romances.”

“Whatever. If anyone in the universe needs to get laid, it’s that guy. I never seen such an angry ball of shithead before in my life.” Rachel stops and then starts laughing. Ian looks up and Mickey’s standing at the bar. He’s got a bottle of something in his hand and his eyes seem black as they skewer Rachel. “Aw. What’s the matter? Am I hurting your feelings?”

“Rachel,” Ian says softly.

“Don’t worry, Ian. He doesn’t actually have any feelings.”

Mickey just keeps looking at her, and Ian’s glad that Mickey’s eyes don’t turn toward him. “You done? Got all that feeling sorry for yourself because I had no desire to go near you off your chest? Because I’ve got work to do.” He turns and heads back toward the kitchen and, as he does, his eyes slide over Ian. There’s enough disdain in his glance to make Ian’s stomach hurt.

“He’s such a fucking dick.”

“Maybe you guys should just leave him alone.” 

“Where’s the fun in that? You know he called you a faggot, right? Just then? Under his breath?”

“Rachel.”

“Hey, I’m just calling it like I see it. He’s a homophobic, tyrannical asshole. I say we take him down.” She goes back to the bar and Ian sighs, rubbing his forehead. He loves Rachel, but she gets something in her head and refuses to let it go. Of course, the night before Ian had been just as keen to cut Mickey off at the knees. 

Ian sets his tables and works the night, watching people gush over Mickey’s food. Ian actually knows what he’s saying about the dishes, and it seems to bring in bigger tips for his enthusiasm. His tables are the last to clear and he works his clean-up, doing his best to ignore Rachel talking at the bar. She’s talking to three of the other servers, and she keeps looking back at the kitchen. Ian buses his last table and takes the tray into the kitchen. 

Everything is spotless, gleaming. The dishwasher is running like it was the night before, and Mickey’s in the same place he was, sitting on a stool beside the door. His eyes are closed this time and his head’s angled funny where it’s resting against the wall, no doubt because of the goose egg on his head. 

“My tables weren’t done. There are a few more dishes.” Mickey points his cigarette toward the sink without opening his eyes, without even turning his head in Ian’s direction. “Everyone loved dinner tonight. The lamb especially. I’ve never heard so many people say the word ‘succulent’ in my life.”

One corner of Mickey’s mouth quirks up and he puts the cigarette between his lips, taking a drag. “Where are your friends?”

“At the bar. They don’t like you.”

“No shit.”

“They’re planning something.”

“I know. Kitchen staff talks.” He blows out smoke and sets his hand on his thigh, cigarette dangling. “There’s some on the range.”

“Some?”

“Succulent lamb. And gratin dauphinois. Cod’s all gone though.”

“Is it your dinner?” Ian goes over to the range and looks at the take-out pie pan. It looks sparse compared to the opulently arranged dishes he’s been hauling around all night, but it smells just as good. 

“Not hungry. You can have it if you want.” He takes another hit off his cigarette. “Why aren’t you out there plotting with them?”

“Because I don’t have a problem with you. You told me why you’re so rough on everyone.”

Mickey laughs. “Jesus, you’re gullible, aren’t you?”

“What?” Ian frowns.

Mickey turns his head and opens his eyes. “You like my little sob story? You sure you didn’t get hit on the head instead of me?”

Ian shakes his head. “No. I don’t believe you. You meant every word about what cooking means to you. And that’s what your attitude stems from. So nice try.”

“Just take the food and get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

Ian folds the metal edges of the container over the cover and smiles widely at Mickey. “See you tomorrow.”

**

Ian has the later shift the next night and, when he comes in, everyone looks on edge. Rachel’s jaw is clenched, and Ian thinks there are tears in her eyes. He tosses her a worried glance, but she just shakes her head. He goes to change and he can hear louder than usual noises from the kitchen. He’s pretty sure that, whatever it is he’s missed, it wasn’t good or pretty. 

He works the cocktail circuit, delivering the drinks Rachel makes to various tables. She doesn’t want to talk and he can’t quite tell if she’s angry or upset. The night finally ends though and Ian sits at the bar and they pool their tips, counting them out. It’s a decent take for a weeknight. “You going to talk to me about it?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“C’mon, Rachel.”

“Marco went off on me for giving Mickey shit, that’s all. Like he’s allied with him or something. Like working in the kitchen together means Marco just sides with that asshole.”

“He’s not an asshole.”

“Oh, shit, Ian. Not you too. He’s a complete and utter asshole. He insults people. He acts like he’s god’s gift to the restaurant business. _And_ he told Jenny off.”

“Why?” Ian reaches over the bar and snags a bottled water. 

“Well, she was being a bitch, but that’s not the point. He’s a dick to everyone for no reason.” She changes out some of their coins for dollars then pulls her till out to count it. “Fucking chefs.”

“You’re just still pissed because he turned you down, aren’t you?”

“No.” Ian just looks at her and she sighs. “Maybe. He just...he looked at me like I wasn’t even human. Like I was beneath his notice. Like he’s something special. And he’s not. He probably has to pay for it.”

“Rachel.”

She huffs a breath and grabs her till. “I’m going back in the office. Stay out of the kitchen, okay? He’s been a total dick all night, and you don’t need him going off on you.”

“I’m a big boy.”

Rachel waggles her eyebrows. “Don’t I know it.”

Mickey comes out of the kitchen, barely sparing them a glance. Rachel flips him off as he walks by and Ian shakes his head. “I wish I could figure out why you hate him so much.”

She looks at Mickey and then at Ian and shrugs. “He turned me down.”

“You have eighty million guys after you all the time.” Ian shakes his head. “Why do you care what one more thinks?”

“Because he’s dark and brooding and he cooks. Teach him how to clean and he’s the perfect man.”

“I thought I was the perfect man.”

“You are, except you want a dark brooding man who cooks too.” She glances over at Mickey where he’s talking to the manager. Ian watches him, watches Mickey’s hands move, gesturing with every word. “Better not let him know. He seems like he’d be a total homophobe.”

“Just because he’s South Side doesn’t mean he’s a homophobe.”

“Uh, yeah. It kind of does. That’s, like, the definition of one. South Side dickhead with ‘fuck-u-up’ tattooed onto his fingers like he’s some sort of ghetto shogun. Surprising that he isn’t though, since he’s got a stick shoved so far up his ass...”

“Rachel!” Ian chokes off a laugh. “You’re awful.”

“Whatever.” She heads toward the office, blowing Ian a kiss over her shoulder. Ian gathers his tips and heads back to the locker room, his path intersecting Mickey’s as he heads back to the kitchen.

“Where’s your girlfriend?”

“What?” Ian stops, confused by the question. 

“Bartender. Your partner in crime. My not-so-secret admirer.” Mickey smirks. “I’d think it would piss you off to see her hitting on me when you were right there. For the record, not the way to go if you want someone to believe her come-on was legit. Having her boyfriend stand over her shoulder while she’s offering requires a little bit too much suspension of disbelief.”

“You think Rachel’s my girlfriend?” Ian stares at Mickey and then starts to laugh. “Oh, Jesus. No. No. She’s not... Wow.” 

“Glad you think it’s funny, asshole.”

“I’m gay.”

Mickey freezes and Ian silently curses his big mouth. One of these days he’ll learn not to say things like that out loud, even if they’re not in the South Side right now. Rachel’s right. Mickey’s probably picking out the best places to dispose of Ian’s body. “You’re gay?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Well, for your sake, I hope your shitty taste just applies to your friends.”

Ian laughs again. “You’re such a dick.”

“Yeah, well, I guess you have shitty taste in coworkers too.” Mickey starts to walk off, stopping when he gets to the door of the kitchen. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

Ian shakes his head. “Nothing.” 

“Meet me here at eleven.”

“Why?”

Mickey doesn’t say anything, just disappears through the swinging door. Ian watches it sway back and forth, trying to fight the smile that keeps threatening to come out when he’s around Mickey. He starts for the locker room again and, if the look on Rachel’s face is any indication, he completely failed at not smiling.

**

Ian shows up a few minutes before eleven. He’s smoking a cigarette, which he keeps telling himself he’s given up, but he never quite seems to quit. Right now he’s got absolutely no idea as to why he’s waiting in front of the restaurant for Mickey. He’s pretty sure he’s thought through every possible scenario, and they’re split half and half between ones where Ian and Mickey end up being friends or like friends, and ones where Mickey kills Ian, chops him up with one of the knives in the kitchen and prepares him in some exotic French dish that becomes the hit of the restaurant.

It’s possible Ian’s been reading too many serial killer books.

“Hey.”

Ian starts and whirls around, breathing hard as he stares at Mickey. “Oh. Hey.”

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just... you startled me. You know. Sneaking up on me.”

“I called your name.”

“You did?” Ian takes a hit of his cigarette and then holds it out to Mickey. Mickey takes it and holds the smoke in as he passes it back to Ian. 

“Yeah. Twice. You were off in your own little world or something.” Mickey shoves his hands in his pockets. “You ready?”

“Ready for what exactly?”

Mickey smiles, and Ian is suddenly absolutely certain that he is in deep shit as far as Mickey is concerned. He tilts his head back the direction he came. “Come on.”

Ian doesn’t argue. He hurries to fall in step beside Mickey, adjusting his stride so that they’re walking together. “Where are we going?”

“Just relax.”

“You could be leading me off to murder me or something.”

“I could.” Mickey shrugs. “But chances are I’d have done that when I had a whole room full of knives at my disposal.” He keeps walking and Ian watches him as they go. Mickey’s got the hint of a smile on his face and he looks completely different than he does in the kitchen. He’s relaxed and casual. It’s a good look on him. “So what are you studying in school? Besides Alexander Pope?”

“God, I hate that guy.”

“I looked him up. He said some famous shit.”

“He wrote a 794 line poem about a fucking haircut.”

“Well, yeah. But, like, he also said ‘to err is human’.”

“That doesn’t excuse that poem.” Mickey laughs and Ian fights a smile. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. You don’t have to write a ten page paper on him.”

“Why do you have to do that?”

“Because my English professor is a tyrannical monster.” Ian bumps Mickey’s shoulder with his own without thinking about what he’s doing. “Supposedly it was a random drawing for authors, but I think he picked me for this on purpose.”

“You do, huh? He’s got it in for you?”

“Oh, yeah.” 

“What’d you do to him?”

“Nothing. I’m an innocent victim.” Mickey snorts a laugh and Ian opens his mouth in an offended gasp. “You _doubt_ me here?”

“Only a little.” Mickey rubs his hand over his mouth and Ian has to force himself to look away. “So what are you studying? I’m guessing you’re not trying to make a career in eighteenth century poets.”

“Ha. No. Because I don’t want to go to an early grave.” Ian shrugs. “Physical therapy. Helping people relearn how to walk or use their limbs or use prosthetics or whatever.”

“That’s cool. Why that?”

“Because I’m not smart, but I’m strong and I’m inspiring and I’m tireless and I don’t give up.”

“I don’t believe you’re not smart.” Mickey points toward an alley. “That way.”

Ian changes direction and they walk down an alley into an open area surrounded by buildings. There are tables and stands throughout the area, all filled with fruit and fish and vegetables. “We’re at a farmer’s market?”

“Something like that. I got a private gig doing a dinner for some guy in the Cubs organization. So I’m buying supplies. You seemed interested in shit the other day, so I thought you might like to see what I’m looking for, hear about what I’m making.”

“Yeah.” Ian smiles. “I’d like that a lot, actually.”

“Okay.” Mickey grabs a rough wicker basket from a pile on the ground. “Five course meal. We’ll start with just cheese and fruit, and then we’ll go on to the soup. Don’t have enough time to make a consomme, so I’m going to make potage au cresson – watercress soup. So I’m looking for leeks, zucchini, and watercress for that.”

“I know what zucchini is.”

“This way.” Mickey leads him to a table and explains the vegetables he’s looking for to Ian. He offers him tastes of things and Ian eats them, looking at all of them warily. He likes some, hates others and makes faces that make Mickey laugh, which is pretty awesome. 

“Do you speak French or do you just know how to say food?”

“I speak a little. Enough to get by. Mostly food.” 

“What’s after the soup?”

“Main course. Le gigot qui pleure.”

“Huh?”

“It’s called ‘weeping leg of lamb’, because you let the lamb’s juices and drippings fall onto the potatoes. Serve it with a mint sauce. We’ll get the lamb at the butcher.”

“So what do we need?”

“Rosemary, cloves, potatoes, onions, mint, and some good wine.”

“For the food or for you?”

“Both.”

“Okay. Got it. Next?”

Mickey leads him to a table laden with fruit. “Salade d’endives et de pamplemousse rose. Basically French lettuce and pink grapefruit.”

“Why’s the salad after the main course?”

“Cleanse the palate. We go from creamy with the soup to savory with the lamb. Then we refresh the mouth with something crunchy and tart. After that, dessert.”

“What’s for dessert?”

“Îles flottantes.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mickey laughs. “Custard with meringue and caramel. Sweet and soothing. And then dark, strong coffee with Arlettes. They’re like a puff pastry cookie with cinnamon.”

“Wow.” Ian glances in the basket which is filled with small bags of fruits and vegetables and spices. “This is kind of amazing.”

“I’m getting a thousand dollars for the dinner, plus expenses.” Mickey doesn’t look at Ian. “I need a server. Someone good. Five hundred bucks for you if you do it.”

“Out of your money?”

“No, just for you.” Mickey shrugs. “And a free meal.”

Ian bites back a smile and nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“You can’t tell anyone. I’m not supposed to do shit like this, but the money’s too good to pass up, you know? One night, a thousand bucks.”

“It’s like Pretty Woman only with food.”

“Yes.” Mickey nods solemnly though his eyebrows are raised. “Just like a hooker. What the fuck?”

Ian laughs and bumps his shoulder against Mickey’s. “So we buy this stuff and go to the butcher? When are we doing this, by the way?”

“Tomorrow night. I know you’ve got the night off, so you wouldn’t have to call in sick or some shit.”

“Aw. Do you have my schedule memorized, Mickey?”

“Fuck off. I looked at it. I wasn’t about to ask you if you wouldn’t be able to do it.” He’s blushing and Ian has to duck his head to hide his smile. “I’m going to have to teach you how to say the dishes though. You’ll have to announce them when you bring them out.”

“I don’t speak French.”

“Neither do I, but you can fake it. It’s not like any of them speak it. You just have to make it sound convincing.”

“I know how to say cheese.”

“Great. If they ask you to pose for pictures, you’ll be great.” Mickey rolls his eyes and goes to pay for the food. He’s obviously well-known at the market, because everyone talks to him, and he’s actually somewhat animated. Ian’s never really seen him like this before, and it makes him smile. It seems like the real version of Mickey. One that isn’t all anger and hostility and perfection. Ian hangs back a bit, and he regrets it when someone says something to Mickey and he blushes a violent red. Ian moves closer in time to hear Mickey tell them to fuck off, but nothing more than that. “You ready to go to the butcher?”

“Yeah.” Ian falls in step with Mickey, reaching over to take a couple of the bags out of his hand. Mickey glares at first, but lets Ian take them after a tense moment. Ian bites back another smile and doesn’t say anything. The butcher isn’t very far away and Mickey tells Ian how to choose the best meat, what they’re looking for in lamb. The butcher argues with Mickey on a few points, but Mickey just ignores him. 

“Never settle.” Mickey points to the butcher. “They’ll try to sell you inferior meat. Never settle.” Ian nearly chokes, but manages to disguise it as a cough. Mickey’s glaring at the butcher who packages the two legs of lamb carefully. It’s obvious the butcher is used to Mickey because he gives Ian a discreet eye roll before he hands them over. Mickey’s terse thank you earns another eye roll and Ian coughs his way through a laugh this time.

“So what now?”

“I have to take this shit over to their place then I have to go to work. Might as well come with so you know where we’re going.”

“We’re just going to go over there?”

“What else would we do?”

“I mean, do you have to call or something?”

“Nah. They gave me a key to the servant’s entrance. We’ll have to take a cab though.” Mickey leads them down the block to a main street and waves at several cabs that just pass them buy. He sighs. “You hail a cab. They’re not going to stop for me.”

“Why do you think they’ll stop for me?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know why.” Mickey jerks his head toward the street and Ian steps out, waving at a cab that’s headed their direction. He looks back at Mickey when the cab pulls over, and he’s smirking right back at Ian. 

They climb in, the bags between them, and Mickey gives the driver the address. Ian’s aware of the neighborhood they’re heading for, though he’s never been near it. It’s way too far up in the stratosphere for him. “How’d you get this gig?”

“One of the guys used to come to my old restaurant and recommended me. He knew the owner of the place, so he actually knew I was the chef. I was shocked when he called. I mean, not something you expect.”

They get where they’re going and Ian feels underdressed and completely out of place. Mickey seems surprisingly comfortable, but Ian guesses he’s probably used to rich people wanting to eat his food. Mickey presents the doorman with a card and then they get escorted into a private elevator off to the side of the room. “When you reach the top, buzz the intercom and I’ll let you in.”

Mickey nods and gets in, waiting for Ian to do the same before the elevator doors close. “Shit. This is...” Ian shakes his head. “Think the air might be too thin to breathe.”

“You’ll be fine. You deal with these kinds of people every day at the restaurant. And these kinds of people won’t pitch a fit in public, so it’s cool, you know? I might get reamed later in private...”

“Okay, you have to stop saying shit like that.” Ian exhales roughly. “Because the double entendres are killing me.”

Mickey grins. “Thought you didn’t speak French.”

“Yeah, well, I never thought you weren’t an asshole.” Ian snaps.

“I got no idea what you’re talking about.” Mickey buzzes the front desk and the door swings open. “You want to enlighten me?”

“You know I’m gay.”

“Yeah. So?” Mickey shrugs as he enters the kitchen. “Shit. I would kill for this set up.”

“So you’re just what? Acting like it’s no big deal to you?”

“Huh?” Mickey sets his bags down. “Why would it be a big deal to me?”

“You’re from the South Side. Not exactly gay pride central.” 

“If I had a problem with it or you, I’d have said or done something before now. It’s not like you keep it a secret. I mean, even if you hadn’t blurted it out to me, I hear you and bartender girl talk about dudes all the time. I’ve seen a few that you talk about. You have shitty taste in guys. Either that or you’re a fucking gold digger.”

“I’m not a gold digger.”

“Then you have really shitty taste. I mean, those dudes are old enough to be your father. Or older. It’s kind of disgusting. How do you fuck something like that? I mean, do you have stock in Viagra and you’re personally working on demand?”

Ian laughs and Mickey shakes his head like Ian’s gone crazy. “They tip better. They buy me things. They make my life easier.”

“They make me sick to my stomach.” Mickey starts moving stuff into the fridge and arranging things just so. He checks the pans to make sure he has what he needs then spends a good ten minutes inspecting the spice rack. “I mean, do you like ‘em? Or do you just fuck ‘em?”

“I like some of them. Some of them I just fuck.” Ian slides onto a stool on the other side of the island Mickey’s leaning on. “What about you?”

“Nah. I don’t fuck old dudes.”

“Do you fuck old chicks?”

“Nope. Not them either.”

Ian can tell by Mickey’s smile that he’s just waiting for Ian to say it. Ian’s not sure he wants to give him the satisfaction though. But he does want to know. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

Exhaling roughly, Ian shrugs. “Boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Are you, like, asexual or something?” He doesn’t say it the way he’s heard other people say it. Condescending. Ian understands wanting something different. He doesn’t understand asexuality at all because sex matters to him a lot. More than it probably should. But he learned a long time ago that people are never uncomplicated.

“Nope. Just not seeing anyone right now.” Mickey carefully folds the paper bags they’d carried the vegetables in and sets them aside. “You asking for a reason?”

“Yeah, because your double entendres are killing me. You know I’m gay and I want to know if you’re just teasing me or if...”

“Or if what?”

“Or if you’re flirting with me.”

“Can you only recognize flirting if it comes from wrinkled old dudes?”

“So you are flirting?” Ian’s voice lifts, sounding hopeful to his own ears. “I mean. With me.”

“Gallagher,” Mickey rests his elbows on the countertop between them and looks Ian in the eye. “Name one person at work I talk to about anything other than work.”

“Um.” Ian’s brow wrinkles as he thinks. “Me?”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because I’m less annoying?”

Mickey barks out a laugh. “Ha. Seriously?”

Ian smiles, even though it’s at his own expense. “So you think I’m hot?”

“I think you’re an idiot. But I wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers.” Mickey smirks at him. “C’mon. I gotta work tonight, and the shit ain’t gonna cook itself.”

**

Ian works his tables, careful not to change his routine because he’s pretty sure he’ll end up standing in the kitchen in everyone’s way, staring at Mickey. 

Nothing had been different in the cab ride to the restaurant, and Mickey’d been just as abrasive to him as he was to everyone else when they went over the menu for the night. And Ian had been included in the glare Mickey aimed at Rachel as he’d walked back to the kitchen. She’d flipped Mickey off and Ian had done his best to get her onto a different topic.

He’s been busy all night though, so they hadn’t talked long. Several of his regulars come in and Ian spends as much time with each as he can. He puts up with touches to his thighs and his ass and, from one of the first and worst, a rough squeeze to his cock. None of it’s ever bothered Ian before, but for some reason knowing that Mickey knows it happens makes him uncomfortable when their hands brush over him. 

One of the guys he’s been seeing for just a couple of weeks catches Ian’s wrist and tugs him in close, whispering that Ian should meet him after work. Ian tells him when his shift ends with a half hour padded onto the time so Ian can change and clear his head. When Roger lets go of his wrist, Ian straightens and glances toward the kitchen doors. He doesn’t know why he looks – the odds of Mickey watching him are infinitesimal, but even though it’s unlikely, it doesn’t mean it can’t happen.

His tables clear early, so he’s done before he expects to be. He changes in the break room and rubs the back of his neck. He needs to talk to Mickey and clarify their plan for tomorrow, but the feel of Rogers fingers on his wrist is distracting. Still, five hundred bucks is worth a little awkwardness. And just because Mickey’s admitted to paying attention to Ian, it doesn’t mean he’s interested in doing anything with Ian.

Ian goes into the kitchen and Mickey’s in his usual spot, smoking a cigarette by the back door. He glances up when Ian comes in and nods at him. Ian walks over and steals the cigarette away and takes a hit from it. “That’s a habit you really need to break. Because one day, I’m going to stick the cherry right in the palm of your hand.”

“No you won’t.” Ian takes another hit and then fits it back between Mickey’s fingers. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“They’re sending a car for me at ten. You want to meet at my place and just ride over with me? It’s a long day for you, so if you’ve got another paper on some old, dead guy... I mean, one you’re not fucking, you could bring that to work on.”

Ian flips him off. “You’re such a dick.”

“Whatever. Give me your phone.”

Ian hands it over without thinking and Mickey takes it, holding the cigarette between his lips as he types into Ian’s phone. He hands it back to Ian then grabs for the cigarette, letting out a slow trickle of smoke. Ian glances at the phone and laughs. “The one young guy you know?”

“I assume all those other names are the geezers you fuck around with.” Mickey shrugs. “My place is a shit hole, so don’t expect anything fancy. And don’t make any sudden moves. The natives get restless.” He takes another drag from the cigarette and deliberately blows the smoke in Ian’s face. “Your girlfriend’s looking for you.”

Ian looks over his shoulder and Rachel is standing there, eyebrows raised. Ian waves back at her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Try not to reek of old man pubes, huh?”

“I think I liked you better when you were pissy to me.”

**

Mickey’s walking out of his apartment building just as Ian crosses the street. He waves and Mickey lifts his hand in greeting before taking a hit off his cigarette. Ian jogs over then adjusts the strap of his messenger bag. “Hey. I’m not late, am I?”

“Nah. Car’s not here yet.” Mickey nods to the bag. “You bring homework?”

“Yeah. And clothes. I figured I should dress somewhat professionally. You didn’t mention anything, but I brought black slacks and a white shirt. Innocuous.”

“Good. Shit. I totally forgot about that.” He drops the cigarette and grinds it out against the sidewalk as a car pulls up alongside the curb. “Our carriage awaits.” He opens the door and slides in, glancing back at Ian until he climbs in as well. The driver doesn’t look or talk to either of them, just pulls back into traffic.

Neither of them says anything during the drive. Mickey’s looking through a fistful of lists, checking a few things off with his pen. Ian just leans against the door and watches him. He’s never really gotten to look at Mickey until the past two days. Never really seen the person he actually is rather than the persona he’s adopted in the kitchen. He likes this Mickey, though he has to admit, he likes the other one too. “Is Gordon Ramsey your hero?”

“What?”

“I mean, you act like he would be.”

Mickey rubs the bridge of his nose, his pen between his fingers like a cigarette. “Why, because I demand that people do their job and do it well? I mean, that’s not a bad thing, you know? And Ramsey’s not the only guy who does it.”

“He’s the only famous chef.”

“You know what he does?” Mickey turns and puts his knee on the seat between them. “He yells at adults who think they know what they’re doing. Who call themselves professionals and act like children. If you’re going to put yourself in front of him to show him what you do, you’d better do the best damn job you can. But when he deals with children? He’s good with them. He helps them. He reminds them that they’re learning, that you can recover from mistakes. So, yeah. You want to compare me to him? Go ahead. Except I’m shit with kids.”

Ian closes his mouth with a snap of teeth and nods. 

Mickey sniffs and shakes his head. “Who’s your hero? Rick Astley? Fucking redhead who won’t give up?”

This time Ian just stares before he starts laughing. “Oh my god,” he gasps between choked giggles. “You just Rick-rolled me?” Mickey shrugs, biting back a smile, and turns back to his papers. But Ian can hear him humming the goddamned song. Ian narrows his eyes and leans back in his seat, folding his hands behind his head, grinning for a moment before he starts singing, and it’s only a few lines later that Mickey joins in. They get through a verse and the chorus before the driver snaps at them to shut up, and they both have to press their lips together to keep from singing, but they hum the rest of the way.

The driver slams on the brakes outside the high rise, and Mickey and Ian laugh as they climb out, barely getting onto the sidewalk before the car screeches away. The same person is working the door, so he opens the elevator as they walk in. Ian’s still humming in the elevator, and he dances out of the way of Mickey’s hand as he tries to slap him. 

When the elevator opens and they walk into the kitchen, Ian can practically see Mickey’s whole demeanor change, see the difference in the way he carries himself. He orders his lists and sets them on the counter before tugging off his light jacket and tossing it in the corner. He pulls an apron out of his bag before sliding the bag across the floor with the jacket. The apron looks completely at odds with his t-shirt with the arms cut off and his old, worn jeans, but the expression on his face makes the rest of it fade into the background. 

“You can sit over there. Do your homework.”

“Okay, mom.”

Mickey flips him off. “Let me know when you finish, and we’ll work on the names.” After that it’s like Ian has been dismissed. Mickey goes over to the sink and washes his hands like he’s some sort of fucking surgeon and then he starts gathering his ingredients, looking at his first list as he starts. 

Ian tries to concentrate on his homework, but he gets caught up in watching Mickey cook. The way he uses his knife so carefully, so quickly. There’s a solid thunk of metal on wood in rapid succession as he chops and the rest of the kitchen is silent. Ian doesn’t make a sound, watching him and careful not to interrupt. From where he’s sitting he can see the tattooed _fuck_ on Mickey’s hand, the knuckles of his other hand and the rest of the inked statement tucked under as he uses the knife. 

“You look like you’re studying hard.”

“What?” Ian jumps, startled by Mickey’s voice. “Oh.”

“It’s going to be a long day. Might as well get it out of the way now, then you can stare at me all you want.”

“Fuck you, I wasn’t staring.” Mickey doesn’t actually look up at Ian, but his eyebrows rise sharply. “I wasn’t staring at _you_. I was staring at your technique. With the knife.”

“Mm-hm.” Mickey scrapes the board clean, and the whole room smells like mint. “Should have seen me with a butterfly knife. Pretty good with one of those too.”

“Why cheffing?” Ian smiles as Mickey looks up and rolls his eyes. “I mean, doesn’t seem like something a South Side kid would choose. Or be allowed to choose.”

“It just happened. I decided it was what I wanted and I went for it. I spent all my life eating spaghetti and tuna fish and SPAM and fucking Vienna sausages. One of the guys I dealt to worked at a nice restaurant washing dishes and taking out trash. I’d meet him there. He’d give me food and money, I’d give him drugs. I started asking him about the food – what it was, how they’d made it – and finally he dragged my ass inside and told me to talk to the chef. Worked with him for a while, dealing drugs on the side so I actually had money to take home, and he helped me get a scholarship, though I still had to work my ass off. Culinaryschool isn’t cheap.”

“Did you choose French cooking?”

“I studied a lot of shit. If you have your own restaurant or a backer who’ll let you play around, you can make your own stuff, but mostly you just make food other people have already made. Not a lot of high paying restaurants otherwise. And the ones that are, well, you make what they tell you to make, even if you know it could be better or easier. When you work like I do, no one questions you. I change things. I do different things. I’ve put a few of my own things out on the menu. As long as no one complains, nobody’s gonna care. And if they tell the manager that the chef did something amazing, it comes to me, not to whoever the head chef is.” Mickey keeps working, not looking at Ian. “Besides, you know how many of those vanity restaurants tank? Being big on the Food Network doesn’t mean you hire good people or serve a good product on a large scale. And you really think those famous assholes are in their restaurants? Please.”

“Wow.” Ian props his chin on his hand. “You have a lot of feelings about this, don’t you?”

“Fuck you.” Mickey flips Ian off. “You asked.”

“You’re right. I did.” Ian glances down at his textbook and then back up at Mickey. “You should make me something someday. Something of your own.”

“I should, huh?” Mickey snorts. “And why should I do that?”

“So I can see if you’re any good.”

“Right. Because you’re such a fucking food connoisseur?”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that I have a very refined palate.”

Mickey glances over at Ian. “Dude, I’ve seen the guys you fuck. Your palate is _anything_ but refined.”

“Hey!” Ian laughs, slightly stung.

“Truth hurts.” Mickey gives Ian a sly smile and goes back to work. Ian tries to focus on his schoolwork, but he finds himself glancing over at Mickey probably far more than he should. He moves around the kitchen, and it’s like a dance. More than once Ian finds himself staring at the look on Mickey’s face. Intent and intense and peaceful all at once. It’s kind of mesmerizing. As is the sight of Mickey’s perfect ass in his tight, worn, faded jeans.

“Is there coffee? I mean, can we make some do you think?”

“Yeah. Stuff’s right over there.”

Ian gets up and goes into the inner sanctum of the kitchen, careful to stay out of Mickey’s way. He finds the beans and the grinder and pretty soon the rich smell of coffee is mixed in with Mickey’s cooking. He inhales and then turns around. Mickey’s leaning against the island and looking at Ian, his arms crossed over his chest. Ian glances down at himself then back up. “What?”

“Nothing.” Mickey’s smile is really more of a smirk and Ian swallows hard. 

“You’re looking at me. Instead of cooking.”

“I’m cooking. I just don’t have to do anything right now. You hungry?”

“I...” Ian thinks about saying no, but then his stomach growls. “Apparently?”

“What are you feelings on frittatas? There’s turkey and feta and some asparagus in here. I could whip something up?”

“I’m usually more of a pancakes from a box man when I make breakfast.”

“You’re not making it. I am.” Mickey waggles his eyebrows and goes to the fridge, pulling out more ingredients. 

Ian watches him as he stands by the coffee maker until it’s done. He pours a cup for each of them, setting Mickey’s on the counter. “Cream or sugar?”

Mickey comes over and wraps his hand around Ian’s and guides Ian’s cup to his mouth. Ian swallows hard as Mickey takes a sip then scrunches his nose. “Sugar. Just a half-spoonful.”

Ian’s whole body goes tense with Mickey that close, but he manages to swallow and sound semi-annoyed. “You couldn’t take a drink from your own cup?”

“I thought you were handing this one to me.” Mickey’s smile is wicked, and Ian’s sire that he thought no such thing. 

Ian holds the cup out for Mickey to take, but Mickey grabs the one on the counter and gets the sugar, doctoring his coffee and then going back to the island. 

“You are such a dick.”

“Yeah, like that’s a newsflash.” Mickey starts cracking and whisking eggs and feta cheese together. Ian sighs and goes back to his chair, watching as Mickey finishes with the eggs and then sets the bowl aside, putting butter in a pan to melt before he starts chopping some kind of onion and asparagus. 

“Aren’t you even going to ask if I like asparagus?”

Mickey pauses in his chopping, looking up and grabbing his coffee cup and taking a sip. “You didn’t object when I mentioned it.”

“That doesn’t mean I like them.” 

Mickey throws the onions into the pan and stirs them for a moment. “More for me then.”

“I didn’t say I _didn’t_ like them.”

Mickey laughs. “You’re just looking to pick a fight, aren’t you?” He goes back to work, mostly ignoring Ian. Ian ignores his homework, preferring to watch Mickey. Finally he gets up and stands on the opposite side of the counter. Mickey raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t look away from what he’s doing. “What?”

“Nothing.” Ian shrugs. “It’s kind of neat. Watching you work. You’re so... I don’t know. Confident. Like it’s second nature.”

“I think it is by now.” Mickey takes the pan off the stove and turns around, sliding it in the top of the double oven. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s second nature to you?”

Ian frowns and exhales slowly, not looking at Mickey. He looks at his own hands instead. They don’t tremble, but he feels like they do, like they should. “I wanted to be in the Army. Be a soldier. Be an officer. But that didn’t work out. I was good at it though. Worked my ass off for it.”

“Why didn’t it work out?” Mickey’s voice is soft, but not careful. Respectful. It’s strange. It’s not something Ian’s used to.

“Long version or short version?”

“That’s up to you.” Mickey leans against the counter next to the stove and watches Ian. They’re both sipping their coffee and Ian just revels in the silence for a minute. It feels like it’s been ages since someone showed an interest in him for something other than how he looks, how he fucks.

“I left home. Got a fake ID with my brother’s information and signed up. Didn’t tell anyone. Just left. Went through basic. Then I got into a huge fight with my commanding officer when he told me to do something I didn’t think was right. It was a complete ‘A Few Good Men’ moment. I’m not huge on bullies. I was a gay kid on the South Side. I had my share of bullies, you know?”

“What’d he want you to do?”

“There was a guy in basic who held everybody back. Our squad was always last because of this guy. He met the requirements, but our DI wasn’t happy with him because we were good. Except him. He wanted to win all the stupid war games we had to play. So one night he had some guys tie the kid to his bunk and then everyone took turns beating on him. Broke his nose. Broke three fingers. Eventually he was hanging off the cot, arms still tied to the bed frame, legs at a weird angle. And the DI told me to break his leg. It would have been easy. Bring my foot down at the knee, snap it.”

Mickey’s still quiet, his eyes on Ian. It’s respect, Ian realizes. Respect for whatever Ian’s gone through. Realization that, whatever it was, it was something that got to Ian. Mattered to him. Ian meets his gaze and Mickey gives him a tight smile and nods, indicating it’s all right for Ian to go on if he wants to. 

“I stepped back and I told him if they didn’t untie him in ten seconds I was going to the Master Sergeant. The DI looked at me and deliberately snapped the guy’s knee. Then he told me to untie him, and to get our pussy asses out of his unit. I took the guy – Mike. His name was Mike. I took him to the infirmary. The next morning before reveille, I get jerked awake by two MPs who drag me to headquarters. I got a dishonorable discharge for attacking my comrade in arms and putting him in the hospital. And who was going to take my word against a DI, right?”

“Jesus.”

“And then Mike... well, apparently he hanged himself in the infirmary. Not sure how he managed it with a broken leg, but that’s the official line.” He looks at Mickey and shrugs. “Told you. ‘A Few Good Men’, only I got off relatively easy.”

“That’s some fucked up shit right there. I thought Canaryville was bad.” Mickey straightens as the oven buzzes, using potholders to pull the frittata out of the oven. Ian goes over to the cabinets, opening the frosted glass doors and pulling out two plates and setting them on the table before he goes digging for silverware. By the time he finds it, Mickey’s at the table, dishing breakfast up. 

Ian sits opposite him and looks at the frittata warily. “So this is like... a baked omelet?”

“Kind of. Just shut up and eat.” 

Ian grins and uses his fork to cut off a bite. He blows on it then eats it, chewing slowly. It’s like a perfect meld of taste and texture and he closes his eyes to savor it. “Jesus.” He swallows and looks at Mickey. “That’s amazing.”

“Eat up. There’s plenty.” Mickey starts eating, smiling from Ian’s praise.

Ian does as he’s told, making his way through three slices of the frittata. He sits back and rests his hands on his stomach, moaning in a mix of pleasure and pain. “That was the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

Mickey snorts and Ian smiles. “You really need to date better dudes.”

“Better tasting anyway.” Ian reaches over and takes a piece of asparagus that’s left on Mickey’s plate and pops it into Mickey’s mouth. “You must not be able to cook breakfast for anyone you just want to have sex with, because otherwise you’d never get them out of your place. Or they’d never let you leave theirs.”

“Haven’t had that problem yet.” Mickey licks his lips, and Ian can’t help watching him. “C’mon. You can do dishes while I get back to work.”

“Oh, I see. You lead me to _think_ it’s a free meal, but it’s actually some sort of quid pro quo, huh?”

“There’s a fucking dishwasher, Gallagher.” Mickey rolls his eyes. “Surely you can manage that.”

**

Ian spends some time on his homework, but most of the time he watches Mickey and practices his pronunciations of the dishes. Mickey does a shit job of not laughing, but Ian just flips him off and keeps at it until he’s got them down. Despite his teasing, Mickey’s actually a good teacher. He’s patient and helps Ian sound things out.

“My accent sucks.”

“Just sound confident. You’ll be fine. Like I said, they don’t know anything either.”

“Confident. Right.” The kitchen smells amazing, and Ian moves over to where Mickey is at the oven. He pulls the lamb out and Ian’s mouth waters, even though he’s not a huge fan of lamb.

“C’mere.” Ian moves closer and Mickey carefully cuts off a small piece of potato, dragging it through the sauce. He blows on it lightly then holds it out to Ian, hand under the spoon. “Taste.”

Mickey’s voice is different, deeper. Ian steps closer and blows on it again, then licks his lips before taking it in his mouth. Mickey watches Ian’s mouth for a moment before looking up to meet his eyes. 

“Well?”

“Wow. You’re pretty good at this whole cheffing thing.”

“Thanks.”

“When you said I’d get a free dinner, you meant this stuff, right? You’re not going to take me to McDonald’s or something, are you?”

Mickey laughs. “What? This doesn’t make you crave a Big Mac?”

Ian licks his lips. “Craving something else. Mick more than Mac.”

When Mickey looks at Ian, he looks like he’s in pain. “God, tell me you don’t think that was clever.” 

“It was clever.” Ian grins. “Admit it. You were charmed.”

“I wasn’t charmed.”

“You were totally charmed.”

Mickey reaches out and swipes his thumb over Ian’s lower lip. “Fuck you I was charmed.”

Ian’s breath catches. He licks his lips, and his tongue slides over the pad of Mickey’s thumb. Mickey inhales deeply, letting it shudder out. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “Jesus,” Ian breathes.

“Potatoes taste good, right?”

“You’re a dick. And fuck, I want to taste you instead.”

Mickey shakes his head, still smiling, eyes hot. “Not while I’m working.”

“My ass isn’t worth a grand?” Ian’s grin feels like it’s taking up his whole face.

“Don’t know how much your ass is worth, but I do know I’m not about to risk a thousand bucks for it.” Mickey’s smile is wicked and Ian’s whole body goes tight thinking about what Mickey could do with his mouth. “So get over your damn self.”

Ian laughs. “You don’t know what you’re missing, dude.”

Mickey grabs Ian’s belt loops and pulls him forward, hard against him. Ian gasps in a mixture of surprise and arousal. “Not missing anything. Just postponing. Prolonging the wait. Building it up.”

“ _Something’s_ up.” Ian angles his hips up, pressing his cock against Mickey’s.

“Oh my god. You are honestly the worst person in the universe. Get off me.” He’s smiling at Ian though, so Ian just shoves him back.

“You grabbed me, as I recall.”

“Lies. Vicious lies.”

Ian rolls his eyes. “I’m going to change. Try not to burn anything while I’m gone.”

“Oh. Oh. That’s grounds for homicide.” Mickey flips him off and heads back to the prep area. He has the appetizers ready to be plated and the lamb is settling before he carves it. “Go get changed. I can hear them coming into the dining room.”

Ian grabs his bag and goes into the hallway to the bathroom away from the main area of the condo. He changes quickly, willing his erection to disappear. He’d expected flirting. The day had been heading in that direction since the beginning, but Mickey seems almost determined to see how far he can push Ian. Not that Ian minds. He’s always known Mickey was attractive, but spending the day talking with and getting to know him makes Ian actually like him. Makes him want him more.

While he comes back to the kitchen, Mickey has the fruit and cheese on a platter and he’s ladling the soup into bowls for the host and his guests. There are two small plates set aside on the other end of the counter for the two of them. “Are we going to light a candle and call this a date?”

“Are you gonna go do your goddamned job?”

Mickey’s voice is sharp and Ian flinches until he realizes Mickey’s nervous and a perfectionist. Ian nods and puts on his best work attitude before pronouncing ‘fromage et des fruits’ to practice. Mickey nods once and Ian gathers the tray, heading out to the dining room.

**

The dinner goes off without a hitch, and Ian ends up with five hundred-dollar bills in his hand, and he and Mickey have another dinner party on the calendar. They take the elevator back down to the lobby. The car’s waiting outside and as soon as they get in Ian groans softly. “I could get used to this. Amazing food, amazing paycheck, not-too-horrible company.”

Mickey flips him off then closes his eyes as he leans back against the seat. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Thank you.” Ian reaches over and runs a finger lightly up Mickey’s thigh. Mickey’s eyebrow goes up, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

“Gonna repay me in sexual favors?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it, but I suppose it could be arranged.”

“I don’t fuck around with co-workers.”

“Hm.” Ian clears his throat. “Then I have to admit I’m unsure about what we’ve been doing today.”

“Learned the hard way a long time ago that fucking coworkers ends badly.” Mickey turns his head toward Ian and opens his eyes. “So I’m not looking for a fuck.”

It takes Ian a moment to process what Mickey’s saying. “Oh. Oh. You want something...”

“I see the way the owner looks at you. I’m not going to risk my job for a fuck. Not even a good one.”

“Wow. Thanks for thinking so very little of me.”

“Not just you. I think very little of everybody.”

That startles a laugh out of Ian. “So what was today about?”

“It wasn’t on purpose.” He shrugs. “Mostly it was fun. And you’re hot. And you’re the first person I’ve met in a long fucking time to ever try to get to know me.”

“Well. You’re not exactly the friendliest dude.”

Mickey shakes his head and looks out the window. “Didn’t seem to bother you.”

“Well, I’m kind of obnoxiously opposed to someone not liking me. It’s a moral imperative to change their mind.”

Mickey laughs as they pull up to his apartment. “Car’ll take you the rest of the way home. Thanks again.”

Ian nods. “What are you looking for?”

“Nothing. See you at work.”

Ian watches Mickey until the car pulls away. He closes his eyes and he can’t help thinking of Mickey’s mouth so close. His cock so hard. “Fuck.”

When he gets home, he takes a hot shower, groaning as the spray pounds down on him. He doesn’t intend to think about Mickey, but that’s all that fills his head. He wraps his hand around his dick and squeezes tightly before starting to stroke himself. It’s easy to picture Mickey’s mouth slick and wet and wide around Ian’s dick, spit in the corners of his lips, his lashes dark with tears. Ian thrusts into his fist, choking back a thick noise.

He can picture Mickey’s cock, hard and red, pre-come stretching between the dark head and the soft curve of his stomach. Ian’s head drops forward and he groans. He can imagine Mickey’s perfect ass as he bends over, the way his body would give around Ian’s fingers, clench around his cock. How his ass would feel in Ian’s hands – soft and firm all at once.

Ian reaches up and curves his hand over the shower curtain rod as the heat and steam make him lightheaded. His whole body is pulsing and overheated. He imagines the low rumble of Mickey’s voice, and it’s the final push that sends Ian over the edge. Ian’s knees nearly give way, but he catches himself on the shower wall.

Turning off the water, Ian stands there as the air cools him down. He’s still breathing hard, but his head is slowly clearing along with the steam. He dries himself off just enough that he’s not dripping his way to the bed then collapses naked on top of it, his eyes closed before he hits the mattress.

**

The next day Ian feels more relaxed than he has in ages. He stretches with a low groan when he wakes up. His dick is hard, sticky from dreams of dark hair, blue eyes and a wicked mouth. He ignores it and gets up, knowing if he starts thinking about Mickey and jerking off, he’ll never make it to class.

He tries to focus on his school work and manages until it gets closer to when he’s supposed to be at work. He gets more distracted and, by the time he’s at the restaurant, his stomach is in knots. Rachel’s standing at the bar and he goes over and slips up onto a stool in front of her. “Hey.”

“You missed the excitement.”

“What excitement?”

She grins as she leans forward. “Chef asshole got reamed.”

“What? Why?”

“Apparently someone reported him for sexual harassment.”

Ian frowns and then realizes what Rachel’s saying. “You didn’t.”

“Me?” She tries to look innocent, but smiles. “Nope. Anonymous note. He didn’t get fired or accused really, but his face when he came out of Rimbaud's office was fucking murderous. I feel sorry for whoever did it.”

“Shit. That’s not fucking funny.” 

Rachel shrugs. “No. Not really. But he’s a dick, so...”

“That doesn’t mean he should get fired.” Ian pushes off the stool and heads toward the locker room. Rachel calls after him, but Ian just lifts his hand in a wave. He goes through the door to change and stops when he sees Mickey standing against the far wall, leaning against a rack of lockers. “Hey, Mick.”

“I get confirmation that you’re behind this, and I’ll gut you with my best filet knife.” His voice is flat, hard. “I’m sure you and your buddies are having a great fucking laugh, but this is my life you’re fucking around with.”

“I didn’t do or say anything, Mickey.”

“For your sake, I hope not.” He pushes off the wall and Ian braces himself as Mickey walks toward him. Mickey side-steps him and leaves the locker room. Ian doesn’t breathe until the door swings shut behind Mickey, and then everything is tight in his chest. 

“Fuck.” He goes to his locker and changes, black slacks and a fresh white shirt to go under his black apron. The relaxed feeling has gone entirely now, and he knows he’s not going to get it back. Not for a long time. He can practically feel Mickey’s angry glare burning into him whenever he passes into the kitchen, through the walls. The truth is worse though, when he goes into the kitchen and realizes Mickey’s not looking at him at all. Like Ian’s ceased to exist in his world. 

The night drags on and it seems like it’s been weeks since Ian started his shift by the time they lock the door behind the last customer. He rubs the back of his neck and goes to the front counter with all the other servers to get their night’s tips, all of them putting a share in for the bus boys. Ian glances up as Mickey walks out the front door. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him do that, and Ian wonders if whoever said something to Mr. Rimbaud had effectively ended Mickey’s nightly ritual of a cigarette alone in his kitchen. 

Rachel’s looking at Ian when he turns back to the counter. Her eyebrows are raised and she shakes her head at him. Ian frowns and she grabs his arm, pulling him back to the bar. “You are not allowed to have a thing for him. I don’t need that homophobic fuckhead kicking your ass.”

“He’s not going to kick my ass.”

“Yeah. Right.” Rachel shakes her head. “Because I’m not going to let him. Come on. We’re going out tonight. We’re going to get you laid, because you’re making fucking cow eyes at Chef Dickhead, and obviously you’re hard up.”

“I’m not hard...”

“Ian. Who knows what’s good for you? Who has been right about every asshole you’ve ever dated?”

“I don’t date.”

“Right. Because you pick horrible men because you have awful taste. So, do as wise Rachel says.”

Ian coughs. “Wise Rachel is kind of a bitch.”

“That’s part of what makes her wise. Her cynical take on the world.” She grabs her purse from behind the bar where she’s absolutely not supposed to keep it. “Come on.”

**

He wakes up with someone in his bed and a nauseous feeling in his stomach. Whatever he drank he drank too much of, and he reminds himself that Rachel needs to die a slow, miserable, horrible death and never be allowed to order drinks again. 

“Hey.” The guy turns over and smiles at Ian. “Last night was amazing.”

“Thanks.” Ian’s not sure what else to say. ‘I know’ seems a little too self-congratulatory even though Ian knows he’s good in bed. ‘I’ve had lots of practice’ is likely to get the guy out of the room the fastest, but Ian doesn’t actually like acknowledging that he’s kind of a slut. And ‘I was pretending you were someone else’ seems like the worst option of all. 

“We could...”

“No. No. We can’t.” Ian sits up and rubs his face with both hands. “I mean, no offense. I just have classes in ninety minutes and I have a paper I have to finish. But maybe another time.”

“Yeah. Right.” He climbs out of the bed and starts getting dressed. He is absolutely not Ian’s type. He’s got a tattoo on his ass, a shaved head, and he’s skinny. Heroin skinny. Ian likes meat on his bones. Likes a hard, firm ass. Likes hair he can grab on to. Shit. 

“Shit.”

“Don’t worry about it. I came home with you as a favor to Rachel.” Ian freezes and looks up at him. The guy – Ian doesn’t even know his fucking name – is smirking. “Hell, you were drunk enough to start hitting on these old, creepy guys. She said you needed to be saved from yourself.”

“Rachel needs to butt the fuck out.”

His smirk turns into a smile. “Nah, man. My butt was the one involved.” He’s dressed and Ian wonders how drunk he must have been, because there is absolutely _no way_ he would have brought this guy home. “At least you were a good fuck.”

He slams the door behind him and Ian flops back on his bed, plotting ways to kill Rachel. He doesn’t really have a class, but he does need to shower and wash his sheets and pretend last night never happened. He has the long shift at the restaurant, and bracing himself to deal with Mickey ignoring him all day is going to require more focus than he thinks he has. 

Even taking his time he gets there early and all he can hear as he preps the tables is Mickey giving orders in the kitchen. He’s far quieter than normal, and his voice has that same lack of tone it had when he’d threatened Ian the night before. There’s a tension in the air, and Ian’s pretty sure none of the kitchen staff know how to react to the change. Ian can smell the first whiffs of the food cooking just before the sous chefs come out to the front on a quick break. They sit at one of the tables and start talking, not loud, but loud enough for Ian to hear.

“Heard they’re going to fire him.”

“He’s too good to fire.”

“He’s an asshole and they know it. Two people have threatened to quit if he doesn’t or if they don’t fire him.”

“What makes them think they’re less replaceable than he is?” One of them snorts a laugh. “Besides, they put the fear of god into him. He’s actually been relatively easy to work with tonight.”

“He’s still an asshole.”

The guy laughs. “All chefs are assholes. It’s a prerequisite.”

Ian frowns and is about to say something when the wait staff gets called together to go over the night’s specials. The whole staff seems quieter, like the tension from the night before is still lingering in the air. They break up after they go through the night’s menu, and Ian’s about to head over to his usual section when he gets called to the manager’s office. Mickey’s there already, arms folded defensively across his chest. Panic flares in Ian’s chest at the thought their moonlighting may have been found out. Instead, Mr. Rimbaud looks both of them over.

“There are some important people coming tonight, Ian. I’d like you to take care of them personally.” Ian nods, careful not to let anything show on his face. He knows what the request means – whoever it is doesn’t want anyone to know he likes fucking boys, and so Ian’s eye-candy, and possibly more. Mickey’s presence also makes sense now. “And Mickey, I want you to leave the general restaurant to your kitchen staff and focus on this particular party of guests.”

“You have a menu?”

“I thought you might be the best to come up with that. You know your skills best after all.”

Mickey nods brusquely. “When?”

“They’ll be here in two hours. Ian, set up the private room, would you?”

“Of course.” He smooths his apron down and straightens up. Mickey pushes off the wall with his shoulders and walks in front of Ian and out the door. “Mickey.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll translate the meal into English for you.”

“I want to talk to you.” Mickey stops and looks at Ian. From the corner of his eye, Ian can see people watching them. Mickey’s eyes are dark and hard, and Ian feels a twist in his gut. He wants Mickey to look at him the way he had when they were alone in the kitchen together. When they’d come so close. “I just... You haven’t worked one of these private dinners, have you?”

“Not here, no.”

“Well...”

“Don’t worry, Ian. I’ll be sure to cook something that won’t take away from you being the main course.” He turns around again and heads for the kitchen. Everyone that was looking seems to look away and Ian sighs roughly before heading to the private room off the main dining area. Rachel follows him with a tray of wine glasses. 

“What the fuck was that about? I mean, what a dick.”

“He’s not wrong though, right?” Ian goes to the long cabinet that runs along one of the walls and carefully pulls out a stack of plates. “We all know that’s exactly what’s going on.”

“You’re good at what you do.”

Ian snorts. “Yeah, the question is what thing that I do am I good at?” She starts to answer and Ian shakes his head. “And you need to stay out of my sex life.”

“What?” She tries to look innocent and fails miserably. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about the strange guy I woke up with.”

“He’s nice.”

“He is as much my type as you are.”

“Ouch.” Rachel laughs. “Only I bet you fucked him.”

The sound of the door from the kitchen shutting seems loud in the lull between Rachel’s words and the response on the tip of Ian’s tongue. Mickey’s jaw is tight when Ian turns to look at him. He tosses a piece of paper on the table. “Menu.”

Ian curses under his breath and Rachel shakes her head. “Jesus, Ian. I know you have this thing about doomed romances and fairy tales, but seriously. That’s one way to get yourself knifed in the back alley. He’s bad news.”

“He isn’t.”

“He is. He’s a grade-A dick. If he gives you shit tonight, turn his ass in. No one’ll miss him.”

“Even if I had a problem with him, which I don’t, I wouldn’t try to get him fired. That’s bullshit.”

“People get what they deserve. Karma.” She waves her fingers and backs out of the room. Ian sighs and finishes with the table, grabbing the menu once he’s done setting it up. It’s an appetizer, a salad, and a main dish, which Ian gets since Mickey hasn’t had a lot of time, and it has to be different than the restaurant’s menu for the evening. 

The door to the main restaurant opens and Mr. Rimbaud shows everyone in. There are six people in the party, all three in male-female couples. Ian raises an eyebrow and gets a discreet nod toward the man holding the chair for his trophy wife. Ian nods and takes one of the bottles of wine and starts pouring as Mr. Rimbaud does the same. Ian gets a long look from the man and smiles at him, just like he’s supposed to.

“Monsieur Jeffries, I leave you and your friends in Ian’s most capable hands. I think you’ll find tonight’s dinner spectacular. We have a new chef since your last visit and he is a wonder.”

“I’m sure everything tonight will be delicious.” His eyes don’t leave Ian, and Ian sees the small light go on near the kitchen door, letting him know the first course was ready. He ducks into the kitchen and takes a deep breath. Mickey’s not looking at him. 

“Goat cheese crepe,” is all Mickey says.

“French.”

Mickey glances at Ian and his eyebrows are raised slightly. “Crêpe au fromage de chèvre.”

Ian repeats it twice and then takes the tray. He can feel Mickey looking at him as he walks out, and Ian’s pretty sure he’s actually wearing his first real smile of the day.

**

The three couples are talking, lingering over coffee and dessert. Ian carries the last of the entree dishes into the kitchen and Mickey’s leaning against the counter with his eyes closed. Setting the tray down, Ian leans on the prep table opposite him. “They really liked the food.”

“Good.”

“Mr. Rimbaud looked really happy when he came in.”

“Good. Less chance I’ll get fired, I guess. Make the money-makers happy.” Mickey rubs his face with both of his hands. “Fuck, I need a cigarette.”

“You’re not going to get fired.”

Mickey barks a laugh. “I was accused of harassing three girls on the staff, which is fucking laughable, but no one’s going to take my word for it. When they asked my kitchen staff if they’d seen any ‘untoward behavior’,” Mickey puts it in air quotes and Ian winces, “people came out of the fucking woodwork to tell them what kind of asshole I am. How I’m verbally abusive. How... The best fucking thing about all of that? They’re right. To them it’s just a job. There are two people on the staff that actually give a fuck about what they’re doing, and they fucking hate me too.” 

“They’re jealous that you’re so good at what you do.”

“Not a single person in the universe is jealous of me, Ian. Should have known this was too fucking good to be true and stuck with being a fucking line cook at IHOP.”

“No. You shouldn’t have done that, because you’re talented and an amazing chef. And they’ve got their own issues if they can’t see that. And as for the harassment bullshit, I’ll flat out tell Mr. Rimbaud that we’re seeing each other.”

Mickey huffs another laugh. “You think anyone would buy that? Seriously?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because I’m me and you’re you.” Mickey waves his hand up and down to encompass Ian’s height, his body. “You’re major leagues, and I’m fucking little league. No height pun intended.”

“You’re a fucking idiot is what you are.” Ian takes the couple of steps needed to stand in front of Mickey, his hands braced on the counter on either side of him. Mickey looks up and Ian sees his throat move as he swallows hard. The dishwasher hums in the background and Ian lets out a shaky breath. Mickey’s lips part and his eyes drop to Ian’s mouth. It’s Ian’s turn to swallow. He closes his eyes and leans in as the door to the kitchen swings open. 

“Ian.” Mr. Rimbaud is standing inside the closed door. “The guests are waiting for you.”

“Of course. I was just getting the brandy.” Ian takes the tray Rachel had prepared and left in the kitchen and eases past Rimbaud and into the dining area. 

Ian slips the brandy snifters between the guests, serving Mr. Jeffries last. Ian’s not surprised by the hand curved around the back of his thigh, the fingers creeping up toward his balls. He’s used to this. Sometimes it leads to what he calls relationships, though that’s not what they are. Sometimes it’s just a quick fuck. Sometimes it’s a blow job or a hand job in the bathroom. Sometimes it’s easy. But tonight Ian’s head is in the kitchen with Mickey. It’s wondering how his mouth tastes. And the fingers stroking the inside of his leg make him want to shudder in disgust. 

He gets to move away when one of the other guests asks Jeffries a question and he moves his hand so he can lean forward across the table. Ian steps back and clears the dessert plates and coffee mugs. He can feel Jeffries looking at him, and knows that something will have to happen. It’s been in the making all night. Rimbaud knows Ian. Knows that Ian’s good at bringing in and keeping clients. Even when whatever is happening is done happening, they still come in. 

Mickey’s nowhere to be seen when Ian brings the dishes in and Ian huffs out an annoyed breath. When he goes back into the room, all of the guests are standing and heading toward the door. Jeffries sends them all on ahead and turns around to face Ian. 

“I wanted to make sure you got your tip.”

“They add it onto your bill, sir.”

“This is a little... something extra.” He slips two hundred dollar bills in the pocket of Ian’s shirt with one hand and the other cups Ian’s dick through his apron. “Mm,” he hums as he feels Ian, squeezing. “A big tip.”

Ian swallows. “Yes sir.”

This time Jeffries reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a white rectangle, slipping it into Ian’s pocket. “Room 1014. Peninsula Hotel. Two hours.” He turns and leaves and Ian’s hands are shaking. He balls them into fists and presses them hard against his thighs.

“Peninsula, huh?” Mickey’s standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. “Swanky.”

Ian glances over at Mickey and smiles. “You ever been?” Mickey doesn’t answer, but his expression speaks eloquently. “Wanna go?”

“Pretty sure he wasn’t looking for a threesome.”

“Two hours.” Ian shrugs. “We could do a lot of damage to a mini-bar.”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth lifts. “You serious?”

Ian pulls the two hundred dollars out of his pocket and rubs his fingers together. “I’ll even pay for the cab.”

**

“Shit.” Mickey is staring at the bar in the room. “Shit.”

“This is not a mini-bar.” 

Mickey shakes his head, eyes wide. “This is a bar-bar. This is a bar that’s more bar than most bars are bar.” He points to a bottle. “Do you know how much that shit costs?”

“More than we make in a year?”

“Combined.” He reaches up and takes it off the shelf then glances at Ian out of the corner of his eye. “Should we?”

“Probably not.” Ian walks over to the bed and jumps on it, sprawling out. “But let’s anyway.”

Mickey opens the bottle and pours two glasses, carrying them and the bottle over to the bed. Ian’s watching him through half-closed eyes, and Mickey looks good. He’s in his black slacks from work, but he’s got on a dark blue t-shirt and his black leather jacket is on the chair across the room. Ian taps his fingers on his stomach as Mickey sets the bottle down on the nightstand and then sits on the edge of the bed. “I can’t even think of a food that would go good with this.”

“You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

“I don’t need to taste it.” 

Ian sits up and takes one of the glasses from Mickey and sniffs. He shrugs and holds the glass out. “To robbing the rich dickheads and giving to the poor.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Mickey sips his drink and Ian watches from over the rim of his glass. Ian’s pretty sure the only thing that could be richer than the liquor is swallowing pure liquid gold. Mickey looks into his glass reverently. “Holy shit.”

“I want to have sex with this.” Ian leans back against the pillows. “Pour this on my dick and then suck it off. I would learn how to bend that far just for this. I think this booze would give me superhuman bending powers. Mr. fucking Fantastic powers.”

“That is... fucked up, man.” Mickey laughs. “Seriously fucking fucked up.”

“Were there cigars?” Ian slides off the bed and looks on the bar. There’s a humidor and he opens it, letting the rich tobacco smell permeate the room. “You know how to do this?”

“Light a stogie?” Mickey gets off the bed and walks over next to Ian. “The only cigars I’ve been around come from the fucking corner store, look like turds, and smell like feet.”

“There’s a little cigar guillotine, right? Pretty sure I’ve seen that in the movies. These things should come with fucking instructions. People aren’t actually born knowing how to do this, are they?” He looks through the box, lifting up what seems to be the guillotine. He snips the head off of one cigar and smells it. “Excellent bouquet.”

“Fuck off.” Mickey takes it from him and goes to his jacket and digs a lighter out of his pocket. Ian snips the head off of another cigar and brings it over. 

“Light us up.” Ian makes a face as he inhales and then starts coughing. He can feel his face turning red and fumbles back to the bar to take a quick swallow of the booze, which doesn’t help in the slightest.

“Pretty sure you’re not supposed to inhale, dude.” Mickey’s not quite laughing at him, but his smile widens when Ian manages to flip him off, cigar still in hand. Mickey wanders around the room, eventually settling in one of the low chairs, stretching out, arching his back off the chair and groaning. “Shit. I could get used to this.”

“Right?” Ian sits in the chair opposite him and copies his posture, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he brings the cigar up to his lips.

“It worth it?”

“What?” Ian doesn’t lift his head or open his eyes. He knows what Mickey’s asking, and he doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want him to ask the question at all. 

“You know what.” He says it quietly, and Ian exhales. 

“No.”

“Then why? You don’t owe the restaurant anything. And you can’t tell me you like these dudes. And if this shit isn’t worth it...”

“People like this can ruin your life without even thinking about it. People like us are flies they can swat and no one will notice.”

“Yeah, but why are you worth the effort. No offense.” 

Ian straightens up. “I’m not. It’s not about me. It’s about them. Power. That’s all they give a shit about. And if someone like us defies that power, then they have to put on a display. Fucking them doesn’t cost me anything.”

“Must wreak havoc on your relationships.”

“I don’t have any relationships.” He meets Mickey’s gaze head on. “If I did, it’d be different.”

“They could still destroy you. Show of power.” Mickey leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, cigar still between his fingers. “What would make it different?”

“I don’t know. But it would be. Maybe I’d just have to find a place where the opportunity didn’t arise. Maybe be a line cook at IHOP.” 

Mickey laughs. “Do you even know _how_ to cook?”

“No. But it can’t be _that_ hard.”

Mickey blinks at Ian, and Ian has to bite his lips to keep from smiling. Mickey very slowly and very carefully sets his glass down, balancing the cigar on top of it. He walks over to where Ian is sitting, his expression dark and his eyes hooded. He takes Ian’s glass from him and sets it on the table beside them, resting Ian’s cigar like he had his own. Ian can’t look away from him

“What are you doing?”

“You’re really going to fuck that guy?”

Ian shrugs. He can see the disgust in Mickey’s eyes. “Fuck you. You don’t get to judge me.”

Mikey shakes his head and moves closer, climbing on Ian’s chair, straddling him. His knees dig into the cushion on either side of Ian’s thighs. Ian stares at him and sucks in a breath.

“What...” He exhales shakily. “What are you doing?”

“Asshole is in for some disappointment if you don’t know the answer to that question.”

“You’re such an-” Mickey cuts him off, mouth pressed to Ian’s. The kiss is slow and languid, and Ian doesn’t protest when Mickey’s tongue brushes his lips. He opens his mouth and groans in his throat as their tongues slide together.

Ian settles his hands on Mickey’s hips, fingers curling into his belt lops. It’s Mickey’s turn to groan, and he shifts closer. His hands are braced on the back of the chair and it’s the first time someone’s dominated and directed a kiss without having to hold Ian still.

Mickey pulls back slightly, their lips still almost brushing. “Jesus.”

Ian releases Mickey’s waist and slides his hand up his back instead, pulling him and closing the distance between them. Mickey lets Ian take over, arching into him, grinding down. Ian catches Mickey’s tongue and sucks on it, tilting his head slightly so he can deepen the kiss.

Mickey’s hands come off the chair and one of the molds to the back of Ian’s head. His other hand curves against the side of Ian’s throat. Ian moans in response and rocks his hips up as Mickey strokes his thumb along Ian’s jaw. Ian’s hand slips to the small of Mickey’s back and then he wraps his arm around him, pulling him closer and holding the hard bulge of Mickey’s dick against his own.

“Yes,” Ian murmurs against Mickey’s mouth. “Fuck yes.” He bites Mickey’s lower lip and holds it between his teeth as he pulls back. “Please.”

Mickey rocks down again and then again and then suddenly there’s a rhythm. Mickey kisses Ian again hard and desperate. Ian’s grip tightens on Mickey’s waist, fingers digging into Mickey’s skin. He slides his other hand to Mickey’s neck then breaks the kiss, moving down to the other side of Mickey’s throat.

Mickey’s knees dig into Ian’s thighs and he rocks down harder, faster. Ian bites and sucks at the pale, thin skin of Mickey’s neck and Mickey’s hips stutter out of their rhythm as he lets out a strangled moan.

Ian can feel the heat low in his body, growing stronger. He knows he’s close and he has to pull back, head falling onto the chair cushion. Mickey slumps on top of him with a thick, frustrated groan. “Wh-why’d you fuckin’ stop?”

Ian clears his throat. “You have to go.”

“The fuck?”

“He’ll be here soon.”

“Oh. Right. Grandpa.” Mickey’s voice is thick and rough. He’s obviously pissed as he pushes against Ian’s grip and climbs off his lap. “Have a great time.”

“Mick...”

Mickey picks up his cigar and holds it so he can grab the glass and down the rest of the booze. “Thanks for the drink.” He takes a draw off the cigar and blows out smoke. “See you at work.” He grabs his jacket and leaves. The hotel’s too nice for the door to slam, but Ian’s pretty sure that if it could, it would have sounded like a clap of thunder.

**

When Ian comes in to work two days later, he avoids the kitchen for as long as he can, but eventually he has to go in. Mickey’s still subdued and the kitchen staff, instead of being relaxed by it, seems even more on edge. Ian glances toward Mickey and then moves over to place his order.

“Gallagher. Nice of you to join us. You have to take a day off to recover?”

Ian flips off one of the sous chefs. “You still jerking off while thinking about your mother?”

The rest of the kitchen jeers and laughs, and Ian looks back over at Mickey. He’s not looking at Ian. Sighing softly, Ian goes back out to the floor. After that there’s no time to dwell in the kitchen. Ian’s section stays full the rest of the night, so by the time the last person leaves, he’s exhausted. He sinks down at one of his tables and scrubs his face with both hands.

He looks up as the kitchen door swings open and Mickey walks out, headed for the door. He’s changed into jeans and a tank top and he’s tugging on a hoodie. Ian grabs the sleeve. “Hey.”

“I’m off the clock.”

Ian twists the fabric. “Mickey.”

Mickey sighs and turns. “What?”

“I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Yeah? Good for you. What happened? He too drunk to function?”

“No. I told him I appreciated the tip, but I wasn’t actually included with dinner.”

“Yeah? Not a happy meal toy, huh?”

Ian laughs. “At least you didn’t go for the Cracker Jack joke. Those prizes suck.”

Mickey tugs the sleeve free of Ian’s grip. “Don’t you have work to do?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Ian before letting his gaze move around the restaurant. Ian knows when Mickey looks at the bar by the way he stiffens. “I’ll see you later.”

“Wait.” Ian’s not sure what to say really, but he doesn’t want to let Mickey leave so he stands up. “So I’m thinking about a new career.”

“One that doesn’t put you in hotel rooms with creepy old men?”

“Yeah. Line cook at IHOP. Someone told me it was pretty easy.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Good luck with that.”

Ian grabs Mickey’s arm before he can move back toward the door. “There’s one problem though.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know how to cook.”

“Don’t worry. Anyone can make pancakes.” 

Ian glances down at his hand around Mickey’s forearm, his thumb rubbing against the fabric. “I was thinking maybe I could get cooking lessons.”

“You were, huh?”

“Yeah.” He smiles when Mickey bites his lower lip. Ian’s pretty sure that means Mickey’s thinking about it, so the odds are good he might actually do it. “I come over to your place. You teach me how to cook. Just the basics. Eggs. Pancakes. Crepes. Filet mignon.”

Snorting, Mickey pulls his arm free of Ian’s grip again. “I have tomorrow off.”

“I get out of class at one and don’t work until six. I could be there around one-thirty?”

Mickey shakes his head and walks toward the door. Ian frowns, about to walk after him, but Mickey stops with his hand on the door handle. “Apartment 7A.”

**

Ian gets there before one-thirty, and paces outside the apartment building for a few minutes before getting up the courage to go upstairs and knock. Mickey opens the door and Ian swallows hard. He’s in loose sweats that hang low on his hips and he’s just tugging on a tank top so Ian can see pale skin and dark hair trailing down from Mickey’s navel to the waistband of his sweats. “I’m a little early.”

“Yeah, I can tell time. C’mon.” He leads the way into the apartment and directly to the kitchen, so Ian doesn’t really have time to look around. “I figure we have time for one or two dishes today depending on how you catch on. If you like it, we can do another one another time. If not – or if you piss me off – we’re done. Cool?”

“Um. Yeah. Cool.” Mickey’s apartment is in a semi-shit neighborhood, and the building is fairly run down, so the sight of the kitchen is a shock to the system. It’s brightly lit and fucking gleams. It’s still small, but neatly organized and there are more pans than Ian’s ever seen outside a restaurant. “Wow.” Mickey smiles slightly, and Ian can see him trying to hide the pride in his expression. “I mean, holy fuck levels of wow here.”

“Shut up.”

“Can I touch anything? I’m afraid to touch anything.”

“You can wash your hands.” Mickey gestures to the sink as he heads that way. He washes his hands in hot water with lots of soap and Ian does the same as soon as it’s his turn. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so intimidated. “You want an apron?”

“You have aprons?”

“Yeah. Whole French maid costume.” Ian’s eyes go wide and Mickey flips him off. “Over here, asshole.” Ian goes over to the counter. Despite how it looks, the kitchen is small, so he’s pressed fairly close to Mickey. “We’re going to start with some crepes. We’ll do sweet ones, so even if you fuck up, they won’t taste like shit. They’ll taste like sugary shit.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You’re here.” Mickey holds Ian’s gaze. “Doesn’t get more confident than that.”

“Okay. Let’s go.” 

Ian listens closely as Mickey goes through the ingredients and then walks Ian through the recipe. He stands on the other side of the counter, letting Ian do all the work in the bowls and pans he’s already gotten out. He gives Ian basic pointers – stirring versus folding, pour liquid into dry, what the fuck zest actually is – as they go, and Ian asks a lot of questions, but Mickey never seems to get annoyed. Ian knows that he’s taking much longer than he should, but he wants to get this right. He wants to impress Mickey more than he wants to admit.

He pours the first batch of batter into the pan, though it ends up being twice as much as he needs. Mickey coaxes him through dumping some back into the bowl. Ian’s frazzled then, despite Mickey’s calm voice, and the first crepe ends up more of a crisp. “Shit.”

“It’s cool. Everybody burns their first crepe.”

Ian glances at him. “Did you?”

“Everybody but me burns their first crepe.” Mickey laughs. “C’mon. Try again. Grease up the pan, pour slower.” Ian does as he’s told, flipping it when Mickey tells him to. When he slides it off onto the plate, it’s perfect and Ian stares at it wide-eyed.

“Holy shit. I made a crepe.”

“You did.”

“I made a crepe. By myself.” Ian smiles and Mickey smiles back at him. “I’m gonna make more.”

“You go, Julia Child.” 

Ian ignores Mickey at that point, working his way through all the batter. The crepes don’t look quite as perfect and round as the ones at the restaurant, but they still look and smell good. “What now?”

“Fold them in fourths then put them in the oven for a little bit while you make the sauce. About four minutes.”

Ian can’t stop smiling as he puts the sauce together, and he can’t stop glancing over at Mickey. Mickey keeps smiling back at him and Ian has to duck his head from time to time to focus on what he’s doing. Mickey’s kitchen timer buzzes and Ian pulls the tray of crepes out of the oven, transferring them to the plates Mickey pulls down. 

“Sauce then strawberries then powdered sugar. Use a spoon to drizzle the sauce. Yeah. Nice.”

Ian finishes and looks down at the two plates. “Holy shit.” He fishes out his camera and takes a picture and then shows it to Mickey. “Look what I did.”

“Yeah. I was there.” Mickey laughs. “But you’re not finished.”

“I’m not?” Ian’s brow furrows and he looks around. “What’d I forget.”

Mickey picks up two forks and hands one to Ian. “Taste test.”

“Oh.” Ian frowns. “But what if they taste like shit?”

Mickey shrugs. “Cooking is science. We start over and figure out what step we missed or fucked up.”

“I missed or fucked up.”

“I’m right here walking you through it. _We_.” Mickey grabs a plate and tugs it across the counter toward him. He cuts off a piece and puts it in his mouth, lips tight around the fork to capture all the sauce. Ian watches him intently, not breathing until Mickey swallows and licks his lips. Even that makes his chest tight, not ready to let out a relieved breath until Mickey says something. “Huh.”

“Huh? What the fuck does ‘huh’ mean?”

“Well, they’re a tiny bit doughy tasting. Not bad, but not quite like they’re supposed to be. But good.” He cuts off another bite and holds the fork up to Ian’s mouth. “C’mon. Every good chef trusts himself enough to take a bite of what he makes.”

Ian swallows hard and then leans in slowly and closes his mouth around the fork. Mickey’s eyes are locked on Ian’s mouth and it takes a minute for Ian to be able to swallow. “I’ve never actually had a crepe, so I have no idea how they’re supposed to taste. So, you know, I think I did pretty good.”

Mickey presses his lips together for a moment, but eventually the laugh escapes. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“No.” Ian smiles weakly. “I’m not a big... consumer of French cuisine.”

“Everybody’s had crepes. They fucking make ‘em at IHOP. Denny’s.”

“If I go out to eat, I’m not eating four little thin things filled with stuff. I want a thick and fluffy stack of pancakes, four types of meat, five eggs and a glass of OJ.”

“You are such a fuck.” Mickey moves around Ian and shoves him toward the end of the counter. “Watch and learn.”

He moves fast, faster than Ian can really follow. Mickey seems to move instinctively, decisively. He doesn’t question or hesitate. He’s got the batter ready to go in the same time it took Ian to measure everything out. Everything is straightforward and yet it looks so fluid, elegant. He’d tell Mickey he looks beautiful, but he’s pretty sure it’d get him punched in the face. 

The crepes are in the oven before Ian realizes it and he shakes his head. “Jesus, you’re fucking amazing.”

“Just years of practice.”

“No. I could practice that for years and never do it like you do.”

“Because you cook from here.” Mickey taps Ian on the forehead. “Not here.” He moves his hand down and presses his finger to Ian’s chest. “When I first started this I realized it was what I’d wanted forever. It isn’t what works for you and that’s fine. If it worked for everyone, I’d be out of a job. And believe me, I have _no_ other skills unless you count knocking over small convenience stores and selling drugs.” Mickey turns and pulls the crepes out of the oven and dishes them up with sauce, strawberries, and powdered sugar. 

Ian cuts off a bite and eats it, groaning before he’s even swallowed. “Holy shit. That’s what I’ve been missing?”

“Well, they’re probably better at IHOP.” 

Ian takes another bite and then another. “Can you be my personal chef?”

“You can’t afford me.” Mickey tears off a piece of crepe and eats it. “This is probably all we have time for today. If you want to do it again next week, we can go for ratatouille or a double baked cheese souffle with Parmesan cream.”

“I want to make something in French.”

“Ratatouille then.”

“I don’t know what that is, other than a Disney movie.”

“I promise to show you. I’m sure you’ll be just as good as the rat.”

Ian sticks his tongue out and then tears off a piece of crepe and drags it across the plate and holds it out. A drop of the vanilla wine sauce falls on Mickey’s lower lip and his tongue darts out to lick it off before he opens his mouth. Ian sets the crepe on his tongue and then pulls his fingers back, licking them clean.

“What was that about? The other night?” Ian’s voice is soft, and he watches Mickey carefully. He doesn’t want to push, but he also wants to figure out which Mickey is the truth – the ‘I don’t fuck around with co-workers’ Mickey or the ‘let me sit on your lap and grind against you while we make out’ Mickey. “Is that a thing that we’re going to do? That you want to do?”

Mickey licks his lips again, and Ian can’t look away. Mickey’s mouth is addictive just to look at, much less to taste. “I don’t fuck around with coworkers.”

“Then I’m a little confused.”

“Me too.” 

Ian takes a step forward, the air between them seems thin and hard to breathe. “Maybe we should figure it out. Because I liked the other night. A lot.”

Mickey nods. “I’ve already got people saying I’m sexually harassing my coworkers. Pretty sure me having sex with one of them might actually be considered proof.”

“Not harassment if I want it.” Ian reaches out and rubs his thumb over Mickey’s lower lip. “And I’m pretty sure we’re both clear on the fact that I want it.” He steps closer again and Mickey has to look up at him. “In fact, if you’re dating me no one would even think you’re looking at anyone else.”

“Seriously? You think that highly of yourself?” Mickey smirks then rubs his lower lip with his thumb. “Dating, huh?”

“Well, we could just fuck.” Ian shrugs. His chest is tight and he feels like he’s holding his breath, pressure building up inside him. “If that’s what you want.”

“I get a say in this, huh?”

“Of course,” Ian continues as if Mickey didn’t speak, “if we’re just fucking, then you’re fucking around with a coworker. If we’re dating... well, that’s something different, right?” He meets Mickey’s gaze and holds it. “That’s what you wanted isn’t it? Something more than just a quick fuck?”

“I don’t date.”

“You don’t fuck around, you don’t date.”

“I didn’t say I don’t fuck around. I said I don’t fuck around with co-” Ian shuts Mickey up by kissing him, backing him up against the counter and bracing his arms on either side of Mickey so he’s trapped. Mickey makes a low noise that prompts Ian to move even closer. Mickey doesn’t fight him or protest when Ian presses his tongue between Mickey’s lips, when he deepens the kiss. Instead Mickey’s tongue slides against Ian’s, licks at the underside of it, rubs against the roof of Ian’s mouth. 

Ian moans softly and gets a leg between both of Mickey’s, rolling his hips so he has friction, rubbing hard against Mickey’s thigh. Mickey makes a noise, something between a moan and a sigh, as he wraps his other leg around the back of Ian’s and hitches higher against him. Ian wants to move his hands, but even like this he’s afraid to give Mickey the room to back away, to push him off. 

Mickey’s hands wind around Ian’s neck, fingers digging into his hair as he pulls Ian down slightly, closer still. Ian gives in and grabs Mickey’s hips, hefting him up onto the counter. He can sense the protest building inside Mickey, so he breaks the kiss and sucks at Mickey’s throat. Whatever Mickey was going to say dies in a rumble as Ian’s hands slide up and tug Mickey’s shirt free of his jeans, slipping beneath them and splaying over his lower back.

Mickey shifts toward the edge of the counter and Ian pushes more firmly between his legs to hold him in place. Mickey’s ankles are locked around the back of Ian’s knees and they press against him as Ian bites and sucks along Mickey’s jaw to his ear, down his neck. Ian rocks forward and Mickey sucks in a hard breath.

“F-fuck, Ian. Shit.” 

Moving his head up to the base of Mickey’s jaw, Ian breathes in his ear, feathering the words against Mickey’s skin. “Want you.”

“Not... fuck, not like this.” Mickey actually manages to get his hands between them, pushing Ian back. 

“What?” Ian steps back further, completely confused, as Mickey slides off the counter. “Like this how? Like in the kitchen? We don’t have to be in the kitchen.”

“Like this like you have to go to work in an hour.”

“We could do a lot in an hour,” Ian promises him.

“I’m not going to fuck you just because you made a decent crepe.” 

Ian starts to say something, then narrows his eyes at the hint of a smile on Mickey’s face. Taking a deep breath and pulling himself up to his full height, Ian holds Mickey’s gaze as he exhales. “What do I have to make?”

“To get me to put out?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey thinks for a minute. “Cassoulet.”

“What’s that?”

“Nope. You’ve got to do all the work for yourself.” He takes a piece of paper off a pad on his refrigerator and writes it out for Ian. “Make that, and I might let you get in my pants.”

“No way. I want a goddamned guarantee.”

Mickey presses his chest to Ian’s and rises up on his toes to kiss him. It’s deep and hard and hot enough that Ian cups Mickey’s ass mid-kiss to pull him even closer. Mickey has the balls to laugh against Ian’s mouth and pull away. “Make it good and I’m all yours.”

“No bullshit?”

“Not even a little.” Mickey licks his lips and slides his hand over Ian’s cock through his jeans. “Seems kind of mean to make you go to work like this.”

“It really is.”

“I suppose you could go jerk off in my bathroom.” He ducks Ian’s swing by sinking down onto his knees. Ian stares down at him, his cock hardening further. Mickey’s looking up, lashes shadowing his eyes as he undoes Ian’s belt. It’s probably the hottest thing Ian’s ever seen until Mickey licks his lips and then they’re pink and wet and parted, and that’s _definitely_ the hottest thing. 

“Fuck, Mickey.”

Mickey eases Ian out of his jeans and boxers and strokes his hand along the length of Ian’s dick. “Jesus. Your cock is fucking...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, instead taking Ian’s cock deep into his mouth. Ian reaches out to grab the edge of the counter with his hand for support as Mickey keeps looking up at him, watching Ian hotly as Ian’s dick disappears between Mickey’s parted lips.

Ian swallows hard, breathing roughly as Mickey works him with his tongue and lips and the barest hint of teeth. Ian doesn’t look away, though it’s hard not to let his eyes close, and his lashes flutter and break up the sight of Mickey for the briefest of moments. Mickey’s fingers are fisted in Ian’s jeans and he uses Ian’s thighs as support as he moves up and down Ian’s dick, mouth hot and wet, lips pink and shiny, eyes bright, spit coating Ian’s dick and gathering in the corners of Mickey’s mouth.

Ian wraps his free hand around the nape of Mickey’s neck and holds him, reducing Mickey’s freedom to move so that he can’t pull off of Ian, just has to keep sliding up and down, swallowing and whimpering, his breath huffing out of his nostrils and heating the slick wetness of Ian’s dick. Ian’s fingers tighten on Mickey’s neck and suddenly Mickey’s not moving. It’s all Ian, his hips thrusting hard, fucking his cock deep into Mickey’s mouth, tip gagging Mickey as it brushes the back of his throat.

Even with gagging, Mickey’s still sucking and swallowing, his hands shoving Ian’s jeans down frantically and his short nails digging into Ian’s thighs, leaving marks. Ian groans and thrusts, rising on the balls of his feet, back arching as he comes. He feels the flood of heat around him as Mickey struggles to swallow it down, to keep taking Ian’s dick. Tears are running down Mickey’s red-hot cheeks, drying before they reach his jaw. 

Ian hand slides from Mickey’s neck to his chin, lifting it as his dick slides from Mickey’s mouth. He’s covered in spit and come and Mickey has a streak of white going from the middle of his lower lip down to his chin. His mouth is swollen and he sways forward, eyes closed tight. 

“Jesus,” Ian breathes. He can’t let go of the counter, because he knows he can’t support himself. Mickey’s slumped back against the cabinets, and Ian can see the telltale wetness darkening Mickey’s jeans. “Fuck. Jesus fuck.” 

Ian sinks down to his knees, straddling Mickey’s sprawled legs and kissing him. It’s as hard and desperate as Ian fucking his mouth had been, and Ian sucks himself off Mickey’s tongue, bites his swollen lips. Mickey’s still whimpering, and Ian knows feeling is probably pounding along with the blood flushing Mickey’s face. Ian pulls back slightly, but Mickey moves into him, knees bending to keep Ian close. 

Ian rests his forehead against Mickey’s and they breathe, both of them struggling to find something close to normal. Ian’s lightheaded from his orgasm and the fact that it’s hard to get air into his lungs. Eventually everything evens out and his body starts to cool, his heart slows from its frantic racing. “You... you okay?”

“Mm.” Mickey hums. Ian pulls back and looks at him, and Mickey looks debauched. Ian gets lost staring at him, caught in his eyes and his mouth and the high stain of red on Mickey’s cheeks. “That... that’s why we need more than an hour.”

Ian laughs roughly and presses his forehead to Mickey’s again. “I think you might be right.”

**

Ian only sees Mickey at work for the rest of the week. Ian’s off Sunday night, and Mickey’s not working the lunch crowd, so he settles for texting him. He knows they both have Monday off, but given that they’ve barely had a chance to talk, he doesn’t want to presume. He’s spent most of his off time – between working and studying – looking up Cassoulet and trying to find a decent recipe. 

_“I’m going to come over and cook for you tomorrow.”_

_“You are, huh?”_

_“Yeah. Don’t work at all so don’t have an hour time limit.”_

_“You need me to go shopping for you?”_

_“Nope. Did as my cooking sensei told me and took care of all of it myself.”_

_“Should be awake by eleven.”_

_“Perfect. Only class lets out at 10.”_

_“You didn’t buy the dish did you?”_

_“See you at 11.”_

Ian can’t help smiling as he as imagines Mickey’s face as he reads the last text. He borrowed the dutch oven and pretty much everything else from the restaurant. He’s already got the duck confit done and chilling, and the beans are cooking. He’s as ready as he can possibly be, even though as far as he knows he’s done everything wrong and it’s going to taste like shit. It’s also going to be enough to feed ten people, so he really hopes his family is in the mood for French cooking.

He doesn’t even make it all the way through his class before he has to leave. He gets to his place and boxes everything up and then calls a cab, pacing the sidewalk until it shows up. It’s only 10:30 when he knocks on Mickey’s door, but Mickey opens it pretty quickly, so Ian doesn’t feel too bad.

“I thought you had a class.”

“I was hungry.”

“It takes a while to cook.” 

Ian sets the box down and grabs Mickey’s wrists. He pulls Mickey toward him then turns, pressing him against the door. Mickey’s eyebrows go up, but Ian doesn’t give him a chance to say anything before he’s kissing him, tasting Mickey’s mouth with rushed, thick sweeps of his tongue between Mickey’s parted lips.

Mickey groans into the kiss and Ian presses even closer, pushing Mickey’s legs apart. Mickey’s only wearing a tank top and a pair of boxers, so Ian can feel him grow harder with every kiss, every touch. He curves one hand around the nape of Mickey’s neck and holds him, refusing to let him go while he fucks Mickey’s mouth with his tongue, tastes him, claims him. 

“Where’s your bedroom?” Ian breathes, breaking the kiss but not moving his mouth from Mickey’s. 

“Get your monster ass off of me and I’ll show you.” Mickey can’t quite pull off sounding annoyed given how breathless he is, how quickly he pushes Ian back and leads the way past the kitchen and down a short hall. 

The bedroom is a mess and the sheets are tangled, half off the bed. Ian tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it on top of a pile of clothes completely covering a chair in the corner. Mickey watches him for a minute before stripping off his tank top while Ian kicks off his shoes and strips down the rest of the way. He closes the distance between them, stalking closer to Mickey and grabbing his hips, tugging Mickey’s boxers down. Mickey’s already hard, and Ian has to work the fabric over his dick.

“Fuck,” Ian breathes, letting the sweats fall and wrapping his hand around Mickey’s cock. It reminds him of Mickey – average size but thick and solid – and his fingers fit around it like they were made for jerking Mickey off. Mickey rises up on his toes, his sweats falling the rest of the way to the floor. Ian uses his other hand to cup Mickey’s balls, squeezing lightly. 

Mickey moans and captures Ian’s mouth, kissing him hard and hungry. His tongue fucks into Ian’s mouth and his arms shake as his hands fist in Ian’s hair. Ian just keeps stroking Mickey, listening to the soft hitches of his breath. 

Ian breaks the kiss and breathes heavily against Mickey’s throat. “So hard.” Ian squeezes with both hands and Mickey makes a noise that sends a shock along Ian’s spine. He fixes his mouth to Mickey’s neck and bites and sucks, tasting sweat. He wants to devour Mickey, wants to leave dark red and purple bruises all over his skin. Ian’s never wanted something like this before, wanted to _own_ someone so badly, even for a little while. 

Mickey moans rough and raw. Ian moves his mouth down, sinking his teeth into the tendon at the junction of Mickey’s neck and shoulder. His mouth and lips form suction and it’s like he can feel Mickey’s pulse in his mouth. Mickey takes a step back and Ian moves with him, not willing to let him go. Mickey’s hands curve around Ian’s back and cup his ass as Mickey moves back again. Ian shifts and he feels the mattress against his shin. 

He pulls off, leaving a sheen of spit on Mickey’s skin, the blood already rising and darkening the spot. “I need to fuck you.”

“That’s the plan,” Mickey huffs, his breath catching. He grabs Ian’s wrist tightly and Ian releases his grip on Mickey’s cock. Turning, Mickey crawls up the bed toward the headboard and opens a drawer. Ian can only assume he’s getting supplies, because he can’t actually look away from Mickey’s ass. He’s seen Mickey in his dark black chef uniform pants, and he’s seen him in jeans, but neither of them even come close to what Mickey’s bare ass actually is. 

It’s round and perfect and Ian crawls on the bed after him, grabbing Mickey’s hips and pulling him back so Ian can fit his dick to the crack of Mickey’s ass and slide against it. Mickey’s head drops and he moans, the sound echoing Ian’s. Ian slides his hands up and cups the flesh, spreading it wider so his dick sinks deeper. He can feel the hint of Mickey’s hole against the underside of his dick, but the tight catch of Mickey’s skin is so fucking perfect, Ian has to close his eyes and just _feel_.

“Jesus, Ian. C’mon.” Mickey’s down on his elbows, Ian’s arms braced on either side of his. 

“Feels good.”

“Fucking me’ll feel better.”

“Shh.” Ian keeps moving, leaning in and licking the line of Mickey’s shoulder blade. Mickey shivers slightly, getting worse as Ian scrapes his teeth over the bone and skin. Mickey tenses like he’s going to say something, but Ian stops him by placing a warm, wet kiss on the nape of Mickey’s neck. “Shh.”

“Ian.” It’s almost a whine, almost a plea. Ian sighs softly and moves back, easing his dick free and running his hands down from Mickey’s shoulders to his ass. Mickey hums under his breath, but Ian stops, moving his hands back up and pressing his thumbs into the dimples in Mickey’s back. “ _Ian_.”

This time it’s more desperate, but Ian ignores it completely. He leans in and follows the path of his thumb with his tongue and feels Mickey shiver underneath him. Ian has had a lot of sex in his life, but he’s never had someone react this way, like every touch is too much. Mickey’s falling apart at his touch, and it’s heady and hot and all Ian wants to do is keep breaking him down, wants to keep touching him until they’re both too far gone, too close to coming to even manage to fuck. 

“Please.” Mickey’s voice breaks Ian’s thoughts. Mickey’s hands are fisted in his own hair, his forehead pressed to the pillow, his breathing barely audible. Ian wonders for a moment if Mickey’s actually breathing, so he gives in and reaches for the condom and lube. Mickey’s body jerks on a grateful sound, too much like a sob, and Ian slides the condom on before coating his fingers and then drizzling lube along the crack of Mickey’s ass. “God, please. Yes.” 

Ian rubs two fingers over Mickey’s hole, feels the tight flex of the muscle. He keeps rubbing and Mickey’s gasping, and then Ian slowly presses one finger inside him. He breaches Mickey’s opening and feels Mickey clench around him tight. “Relax.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey gasps. “Your fucking fault I’m _dying_ here.”

“Could stop all together.” Ian doesn’t even come close to carrying out the suggestion, working his finger deeper inside. There’s a clench and give as Mickey’s body adapts to Ian, to the pressure. The knuckle of one of Ian’s other fingers rubs against Mickey’s perineum occasionally pushing against it. 

“Could die too. Cause and ef... fect.” The word breaks on a groan as Ian eases one finger back and then pushes in with two. Mickey’s breathing grows more erratic, and Ian rubs his free hand up Mickey’s back. “God, Ian. C’mon. Please.”

Ian ignores him, ignores the throb of his own dick. Whatever thoughts he had of torturing Mickey are now focused on being tortured, waiting for Mickey to be ready for him, to be able to take him. His fingers are encased in slick heat, and all he wants is to bury his cock in it, in him. He works a third finger in, knowing that’s as far as he can go before he loses control. He barely manages to thrust all three before he’s pulling them out, pressing the tip of his dick against Mickey and pushing in.

The noise Mickey makes is almost the end of it, and Ian has to wrap his hand around the base of his dick and squeeze to ward off his orgasm. Mickey’s reaching back with one hand, trying to wrap it around Ian’s hip, pull him deeper. “C’mon. More. _Fuck me_.”

He slides in, burying himself in Mickey. It’s exactly as he expected only more. Hotter, tighter, better. Ian couldn’t imagine how Mickey would feel around him, not really. Couldn’t have guessed at the rough sounds, the desperate begging that falls from Mickey’s mouth, a stream of words all run together. He can’t separate them, until he hears a mantra of ‘do it, do it, do it’, and then he starts moving.

He goes slow for a few strokes, and then he can’t hold back. He starts thrusting deeper and harder. His fingers dig into Mickey’s hips and he knows he’s bruising Mickey’s pale skin there as well. The thought of him marked up even more, red and black and purple from Ian’s mouth and fingers is almost too much, and Ian starts moving faster. The words are still coming, graceless sounds that make Ian feel like he’s barely held together, like every syllable breaks another bond in his body and he’s going to fly apart.

He slides one hand down to Mickey’s dick and the head is wet and slick, dripping pre-come. Ian moans and squeezes just the head and then starts stroking the sticky mess along Mickey’s dick. The hand on Ian’s hip falls to the bed and Mickey moves it up to bury his hand back in his hair, the noises muffled by the pillow and the mattress.

Mickey tightens around Ian as Ian strokes him, his whole body clenching on the edge of his orgasm. Ian’s fairly certain he’s begging now, begging Mickey to come, begging him to let go, but all he can hear is the rush of blood, the rush of need. He focuses his hand on the head of Mickey’s dick, his pinkie finger constantly rubbing at the ridge until Mickey’s whole body shakes and he comes, coating Ian’s palm. Ian moans and puts his hand back on Mickey’s hip, smearing thick heat all over it as he grips it again, thrusting until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move anymore, until he’s buried deep inside Mickey and everything stops, whiting out as he comes.

It takes a lot of effort for Ian not to collapse on top of Mickey, especially when Mickey’s whole body slumps to the bed. Ian catches himself on his hands and drops soft kisses at the top of Mickey’s spine, over his shoulders so all he tastes is Mickey’s sweat laced with the smell of sex. “Jesus.”

Mickey makes a noise into the pillow then turns his head. His face is red and he sucks in a deep breath and swallows before exhaling. Ian kisses the side of Mickey’s throat before nipping at the skin. Mickey hums so Ian sucks on it instead, slow and hard to leave another mark. “Fuckin’ vampire.”

“Haven’t broken skin yet.” Ian huffs his laugh and watches Mickey shiver in response. He pulls away slowly, catching the condom as he eases out. He’s tempted to just collapse on the bed, but rapidly cooling come isn’t on his list of favorite things, so he manages to get up on shaky legs and disappear into the bathroom. Mickey hasn’t moved by the time Ian comes back, so he crawls back on the bed and stretches out next to him. “Hey.”

“Mm.” Mickey sounds drugged and hazy, on the edge of sleep. “Shouldn’t you be cooking?” 

“Seriously?”

He smiles, his eyes still closed, and wraps an arm over Ian’s waist. Ian takes that as a no, turning on his side and facing Mickey, tangling their legs together and closing his eyes as well.

**

Ian wakes up and feels for Mickey, his hand landing in a wet spot. “Fuck.” He sits up and rubs his hand on the bedspread and looks around. Mickey’s nowhere in sight, but there’s an amazing smell of baking bread and sauteed onions and garlic. Ian stretches and gets out of bed, grabbing his boxers off the floor and padding into the kitchen.

“Mickey?”

Mickey’s in the kitchen, carefully assembling the ingredients of Ian’s cassoulet, layering them perfectly. Ian leans against the counter and watches as he layers beans and meat and juice then does it again. Mickey glances up at Ian before he starts the second layer, smiling. “You did good work.”

“You’re doing all the work.”

“You did the prep. That’s the hard part. The vegetables and putting it together are the easy shit.” He finishes pouring the last of the juice on top, stopping just before it reaches the top of the beans. “You like wine? I bought some for this.”

“Were you going to seduce me?”

“Fuck no. I fully intended on fucking as soon as you got here.” He grins as he slides the pot into the oven. “The wine’s to celebrate a job well done.”

“You knew the sex was going to be that good?”

“I suspected.” Mickey grins and closes the oven. “But I was talking about dinner. I had great faith in your skill with duck fat.”

“I don’t see how that’s going to get me a job at IHOP.”

Mickey sets the timer then turns around to look at Ian. “You wouldn’t make it at IHOP, Gallagher. The competition there is tough. You’re too much of a softy.” He pokes Ian in the stomach and Ian grabs his hand, pulling him close enough that he can wrap his arms around Mickey.

“So, I have a question.”

Mickey’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t look at Ian. Instead he leans in and licks the hollow of Ian’s throat. “Hm?”

Ian’s eyes roll back and he closes them. He cups the back of Mickey’s head to keep him from moving, to encourage him not to stop. “We... we’re...”

Mickey replaces his tongue with a kiss. “You gonna stop asking stupid questions soon?”

“Yeah.” Ian fists his hand in Mickey’s hair and pulls his head back so he can kiss him. It’s slow and warm and Ian’s not even close to sure of what it means, but he thinks he has an idea, which is good enough given how Mickey is pressed close and his hands are splayed on Ian’s back, smoothing over his skin. When he pulls back, Mickey doesn’t move his hands, keeping Ian somewhat close. “You really think I wouldn’t make it at IHOP?”

“God, shut the fuck up.”

**

Ian drops the remaining cassoulet off with Fiona. Or he intends to, but he gets pulled into the house and interrogated about the smile on his face. His sister is far too intuitive to buy the whole ‘can’t I just be happy’ response, so he ends up spending most of his day telling her about work and cooking lessons and Mickey. Lots and lots about Mickey. They talk for so long that the rest of the family comes home and they reheat the cassoulet and eat, oohing and aahing over it. Ian’s fairly certain none of them have ever tasted duck and he’s absolutely positive Liam doesn’t like it, but he eats the beans, pork, and sausage, so Ian counts it as a win. 

By the time he leaves, Ian knows he’s going to have to stay up most of the night to finish his homework, but it’s worth it to have told someone about what’s been happening. He should tell Rachel, but he knows how much she dislikes Mickey, and he’s absolutely not in the mood to hear it or to have to defend himself. 

He rides the train and glances at his phone when it vibrates. _“Got another private gig. You think you can keep it in your pants long enough to help?”_

_“You think you can manage not to take it out of my pants?”_

_“Make no promises. You’ll have to be strong.”_

_“Like you’d let sex interfere with your cheffing.”_

_“I’ll give you the details tomorrow at work.”_

Ian grins at his phone like an idiot. It’s not that different from any other conversation he and Mickey have had – only with actual sex instead of just innuendo – but it feels different. Ian feels different. He’s still smiling when he gets home, and he even smiles through the next three hours it takes to do his homework. He’s not smiling as much when his alarm goes off two hours later or through the interminable classes, but he does smile as he gets closer to work.

Rachel catches him as soon as he walks in, dragging him over to the bar and pushing a shot across to him. “Drink this.”

“Why?”

“Rimbaud just found out you walked out on Jeffries. He’s pissed as hell.”

“Well, despite what Rimbaud thinks, I’m not actually a whore.” Ian downs the shot and glances toward the office.

“To be fair, he had a reason to think you’d go along with it.” Rachel wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “You know it’s true. You’ve never turned someone down before.” Ian frowns and wants to rebuke her but the fact is that she’s right. “Is this because of your thing for Mickey?”

The disapproval is thick in her voice. “It’s not a ‘thing’.”

“No?”

“No. Not just a thing.” Ian shrugs and traces the lip of his glass. “I know you don’t like him.”

“No, I don’t. I think he’s an asshole. I think you can do better.”

“Yeah? By being the dirty secret of a bunch of married men? Getting _paid_ to be their dirty secret? Was that better?”

Rachel sighs. “He’s a jerk. At least they treat you like you’re worth something.”

“Yeah, however much they pay me.” Ian pushes the glass across the bar toward her. “Mickey’s not a jerk to me. He’s not a jerk at all, and if you’d ever given him a chance, ever talked to him, you’d know that too.” 

“You’re never going to convince me he’s not a jerk. I don’t care how well I get to know him.”

Ian starts to say something then stops and shrugs. “Okay, he is a jerk, but he’s also more than that. But no one actually tried to get to know him.”

“Because he’s a _jerk_.” Rachel shakes her head. “Look, this is circular logic. Maybe no one gave him a chance, but he didn’t give us one either. And maybe he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread – or whatever the French equivalent is – but you’re better off doing your job. Even the parts you don’t necessarily like. Though you seemed to always like those parts when you told me about them.”

Ian exhales roughly. Rachel’s not wrong. He likes sex, and that’s what all of those guys were. Sex with extra little bonuses, benefits – cash or gifts or things he’d never experience in his life if it weren’t for their money. “Mickey matters. I like him.”

“Tell that to Rimbaud, not me.” She nods toward the office where Mr. Rimbaud and Mr. Jeffries come out into the main dining room. It’s too early for guests, so Rachel was obviously right that this was about Ian and the other night.

“Ian. Could you come here for a moment?”

Ian tugs his messenger bag back over his shoulder and follows the two men into the private dining room. There are two of the other waiters in the room setting it up, but they duck back into the kitchen when Ian follows Rimbaud and Jeffries in. 

“You remember Mr. Jeffries, Ian?”

“Yes. Of course.” Ian smiles slightly. “He was here for dinner with his wife and friends not that long ago.”

“You served him.” Rimbaud clasps his hands behind his back and walks around the room. “From our discussion, I assumed that you understood what me asking you to serve him meant.”

“I did understand. You wanted me to go with him and have sex with him so he’d continue to patronize the restaurant and tell all his rich, horny, ‘I’m not gay, but I want you to fuck me’ friends that this is the place to go in Chicago for good food and a good time.’

Rimbaud pauses mid-step and then keeps walking. “You understood that. You were aware that asking you to serve Mr. Jeffries and his guests was with the implication that you would continue to follow through with our... arrangement.”

“I went to Mr. Jeffries’s hotel. I was there when he came to the room.”

“And yet.”

Jeffries holds up a hand. “I’m having some friends here for dinner tonight. Lest you perhaps misinterpret what this means, I’m going to have you serve us and when it is done, you’ll go to my hotel, you’ll wait in the room, and when I come in, you’re going to give me what I paid you for last time.”

“I thought the tip was for my service.” Ian can feel his face getting red, anger and irritation rising under his skin. 

“The tip on the bill was for that service. The $200 was for another kind of service altogether. Which, from what I understand from Mr. Rimbaud is a service you provide regularly. And will provide tonight.”

“Or?” Ian sees the door to the kitchen open slightly. Sees Rachel and Mickey and a few other staff peering into the room. 

“Or,” Mr. Rimbaud's voice is ice cold. “You’ll find yourself without a job. And, perhaps you’ll get a visit from the fine officers of Chicago when I tell them about you running your private little prostitution business from my restaurant.”

“Or.” Ian manages a smile that feels feral and twisted. “I could quit.” There’s a long, weighted silence and Ian watches them both, sees various expressions cross their faces. “In fact... yeah. I think that’s what I’m going to do. I quit.”

The kitchen door swings open and Mickey’s there. His own face is red, anger obvious in his clenched fists and his demeanor. Everyone looks at him and Ian can tell Rimbaud's about to say something, to snap and Ian’s not sure what Mickey’s going to do. His fists are clenched and his face is red. 

“Mickey, go back to the kitchen.”

“Can’t.” Mickey takes off his chef’s hat and then his apron, dropping them both on the floor. “I quit too.”

“Mickey.” Ian shakes his head, which Mickey obviously ignores as he’s staring defiantly at Rimbaud.

“You... _what_?” Now Rimbaud's face is as red as Mickey’s. “You’ll... I’ll ruin you. Your cooking won’t save you when I tell them what you’ve done. Harassing my workers, terrorizing the kitchen staff.”

“I already have another job,” Mickey tells him evenly. He looks at Ian and raises an eyebrow. “We both do. So fuck you,” Mickey says as he points at Jeffries and then at Rimbaud. “Fuck you, fuck this job, and... well, fuck off. C’mon Gallagher. He knows where to send our last paychecks.”

Ian follows Mickey out because he honestly doesn’t know what else to do. He’s a little dumbfounded by his own actions, much less Mickey’s. They cut through the kitchen, so Ian doesn’t even get a chance to say anything to Rachel, and as soon as their in the alley, a high-pitched, nervous laugh escapes him. 

“Holy fuck, what did I just do?”

“Quit.” Mickey lights a cigarette and offers it to Ian. Ian takes it and inhales, coughing slightly as he offers it back to Mickey.

“Shit. I can’t afford to quit. What the fuck.” He laughs, the sound high and close to hysterical. “Shit. Fiona’s going to kill me.” Mickey takes a hit off the cigarette and leans against the alley wall as Ian paces. Ian can feel him watching him, and it pisses Ian off. “How are you so calm? You quit too! Why the fuck did you quit?”

“I hate it there. I have hated it there. But you were there.” Mickey shrugs as Ian stares at him. “And you’d come to the kitchen each night and you’d be tired but smiling and you’d always wave, even if you didn’t say anything. Except when you were with your friends, but I’d see you look and at least smile a little. I couldn’t figure out why and then I thought maybe I could.”

“You... you stayed because you liked me?”

Mickey shrugs again and takes another hit, blowing smoke in Ian’s direction as he holds the cigarette out again. “There are worse reasons.”

Ian takes the cigarette and walks over to the wall, leaning back against it, his shoulder brushing Mickey’s. “And you’re leaving because you like me?”

“Please. Like you haven’t had guys do shit for you before.”

Ian turns his head and looks at Mickey. Mickey’s blue eyes are hard to see in the faint light, but Ian knows they’re probably more expressive than Mickey wants them to be. They always are. “Not shit that matters.”

Mickey pushes off the wall. “Let’s get out of here, huh?”

Ian nods and straightens, walking toward the sidewalk beside Mickey. “You said you had another job?”

“Well, we’ve got the private party. And this guy happens to own a restaurant and he’s looking for people. It’s not French cooking, and I wouldn’t be head chef, but it’s a stepping stone.”

“You said _we_ had another job.”

“Well, you’re helping with the private party – the one that doesn’t require you to sell your ass – and there’s always fast food.” Ian punches Mickey’s arm and Mickey stumbles away laughing. “Okay, okay. He’s seen you in action at the last party, and you’ll impress him at this one. Bet we could even swing you a maître d' position. How snotty can you sound?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ian laughs. “I’ll just pretend I’m my older brother.” He brushes the back of his hand against Mickey’s. “So where do we go from here?”

Mickey laces his fingers with Ian’s and flicks the butt of the cigarette away. “How do you feel about IHOP?”


End file.
